


Locum Tenens

by ChloeWeird



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Bullying, Childhood, Gen, Intersex Loki, Jötunn Loki, Masturbation, Menstruation, Not A Fix-It, Odin's A+ Parenting, Pre-Thor (2011), no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 14:36:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1391347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeWeird/pseuds/ChloeWeird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki is Jötunn. How does this affect him, his growth and his abilities during his adolescence?</p><p>This story follows Loki at various ages, dealing with the reality of having one foot in 2 realms, and not even knowing it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 3 Months

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at being really, unapologetically angsty, and I'm not sure how well it worked...Oh well. 
> 
> Locum Tenens means literally "Place holder". It sort of reminded me of the changeling concept, and how it would apply to Loki.
> 
> Each chapter name is the approximate age of Loki during that chapter, but I left the actual content fairly vague, so that you can think of it as his actual chronological age, or an approximation of how old he is, but adding a zero or two. :)

Strange, Frigga mused, how such a small, insignificant thing as an infant’s grip on her finger could send a shiver of foreboding down her spine. Or, perhaps the chill that plagued her was simply due to the winter air pouring in through the flung-open windows. Regardless, Frigga rubbed her arm through her thick woolen dress with the hand that wasn’t held loosely in the grasp of her younger son.

Thor’s grip had nearly taken her finger right off, she remembered, fondly. His small hand had engulfed the last two knuckles of her index finger and held fast until the tip was purple and the flesh throbbing with trapped blood. She smiled at the memory, but the reprieve from her worry was short-lived.

Loki’s tiny fist fluttered around her thumb, feeble, even at it’s strongest grip. It was one of the myriad ways that Frigga could already discern that this baby, her second, and last, would be different from her first.

“Do his lungs still struggle?”

The voice of her husband wasn’t entirely unexpected. He had been expected home from the continuing aftermath of the final battle with the Jötunns within a few hours of Frigga deciding she could no longer leave her new son in the capable hands of his healers alone.

“Not as gravely as before.”

“And the fever?” Odin wrapped his strong arms around her waist, and allowed her to lean in to his side while he peered into the ornately carved crib.

“Much reduced, but the cooling spells have required recasting every few hours.”

Odin hummed, his face a mask of concern that she recognized from the expressions of the healers who had surrounded little Loki until late this evening, and from her own in the mirror as she rose and went to bed every passing day, worried sick for the health of this unexpected, yet so, so welcome addition to their family. 

“If this continues much longer, people will start to wonder what illness he suffers from," she said, softly, so as not to disturb Loki's fitful sleep.

Odin shook his head, bearded chin brushing the top of her braided coronet. “The healers of this citadel are loyal to us. They would never flap their lips to the gossipmongers of Asgard.”

“But what if they do?" She turned in his arms, facing him while the baby fussed at the shift of his thin, ghostly pale arm. "What if they, or someone else, makes a connection between his intolerance to heat, and his appearance after the fall of the Frost Giants?”

“They will not. For all they know, he was merely a touch early, and is sickly as a result. The people know of your skills of illusion. They accepted the lie we've told them for their own good.”

She sniffed at that. The ease with which the Aesir accepted their story of Frigga wishing to hide her pregnancy to save her vanity still irked her, despite her gratefulness that Loki’s parentage had yet to be questioned.

Frigga ran the knuckles of her free hand down the side of her husband’s face, memorizing the new scars and wrinkles that had formed since the last great battle with the Frost Giants.

"Odin, you are a good king. As your queen, and loyal follower, I respect your wishes, and trust you know best. But, as your wife, and this child's mother, I must tell you that I cannot agree with you on this.” 

Odin covered her hand with his own, and squeezed, gently. "I know, my pet. Your kind heart bleeds for the little boy who will live unknowing of the foot he has in another realm. But I can see so clearly a future where the man he will become, together with Thor, could change the face of Asgard’s struggle with Jötunheim.” Odin placed his hands on her shoulders, comfortingly. “You must trust me on this, dear one. He must not know of his lineage until the time is right.”

Frigga took back her hand and traced the wooden ships tooled into the edge of Loki’s bed. “Yes, my king.”

Odin stilled, and his hands fell off her shoulders. He laid a soft kiss on her forehead, and left the chamber, no doubt headed to Thor’s bedroom for their customary nighttime story. Most nights, Frigga joined them. Today, however, and for many of the nights previous, she had forgone the joy of seeing her older son drift to sleep in favour of watching her new one gasp for breath in the Asgardian atmosphere, and sweat in the cool air of the magically chilled room.

Her husband knew her well, and hit the nail on the head when he guessed her gravest concern. The right time, Odin had said. But when would that time be? And how could either of them know when it came?

She would respect Odin’s wishes, and keep her silence until the day came when her son was deemed ready know the truth of who had sired him.

Until then, he would be raised alongside Thor, her golden boy, who would love and care for his brother without prejudice or reserve. Frigga calmed as she stroked the downy, coal black fuzz on Loki’s tiny head, and lost herself in vague imaginings of their years together as friends, comrades and brothers-in-arms.


	2. 3 Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki doesn't do well in the sun.

“Mama! Loki’s being weird again!”

Frigga sighed and held her needle point safely out of reach of Thor’s grasping hands.

“What is it this time, Thor?”

“He was following me,” Thor whined, with the all self-vindicated outrage that came so easily to older brothers.

“Dear one, you know he only wants to play with you.”

Thor’s constant battle between his sincere wish to play with his brother, and his frustration at having to delay his adventures to allow the slower, more delicate boy to keep up was one he’d been fighting since the day Loki was able to eagerly toddle after him on unsteady legs.

“Yes, but…” Her son stopped, and bit his lip, a nervous gesture he was not prone to, given his brash manner, and brazen confidence.

Some unnamed maternal instinct prickled at the nape of her neck. “But what, Thor? Tell me, I won’t be cross.”

“He—He fell.” Thor’s bright blue eyes slid away from hers, sticking on the brightly coloured embroidery that sat, forgotten in her lap.

“How?” Sliding to her knees, she gripped his shoulders. “Did he trip?”

“No, he just…fell asleep.”

The prickle became a clamour in her eyes. “Where?”

“Outside.”

Her needle point tumbled to the ground as she leapt to her feet and ran toward her son.

***

  
It really wasn’t fair, Thor decided. He’d _told_ Loki to go back inside, but he never _listened_. He’d followed Thor all the way through the shaded terrace to the outer courtyard, where his friends were impatiently waiting for him. Then, Sif had started a game of Frost Giants versus Aesir, and they’d all promptly forgotten about the hot sun overhead.

Loki had volunteered to play the Asgardian villagers, which was perfect; He could stand in the middle of their imagined battle and pretend to be frightened while they ran around him, using sticks and grass clippings as weapons and magic.

The game had been long, but, of course, the Aesir came out on top. Volstagg and Fandral were still a bit annoyed that they’d had to be the Frost Giants, so they’d left right after the Asgardians demanded their surrender. Hogun had been called to luncheon by his mother, so only Sif and Thor were left to officially rescue the villagers.

When they returned to where Loki had been told to stand so that he didn’t get hit accidentally, he’d been lying on the ground, his mouth partly open and his half-closed eyes fluttering in a way that unnerved Thor, though he hadn’t let Sif know.

Thor knew what to do. He’d done it a few times before, when Loki tripped and fell, or got sick. Mother had told him over and over, _if something happens to your brother,_ _come see me right away._

So, he went to find her, leaving Sif to watch Loki. He’d thought that Mother would scold him a little, and take Loki inside for a nap, or his special bed in the healing rooms for a while.

That’s not what Mother was doing.

Sif was standing stiffly next to Loki, ripping the bark off of her sword, when Frigga approached.

“Sif, dear, run along home, please,” she said, and knelt beside Loki, who looked an awful lot redder than he had when Thor had left him.

From his place behind a column at the entrance to their private courtyard, Thor watched as his mother shouted to a passing maid.

“You! Go to the healing rooms, tell Healer Erna that Loki’s caught the sun.”

“He’s what?”

“He’s _caught_ _the_ _sun_ , exactly those words. Go, now!”

Thor had never heard his mother talk like that, even to the servants. The sound of her voice reminded him of Hogun’s father’s, when he and Thor had climbed to the top of a tree that had a wasp’s nest in it; A little angry, and a lot scared.

“Loki?” Frigga said, urgently, as she slid her hands beneath her son’s neck and knees, and lifted him into her arms. “Loki, open your eyes, dear one. Can you hear me?”

Thor could hear Loki make a little noise as they both entered the shade of the terrace. Frigga kept calling his name, softly, then a little louder when she laid him down again on the cool stone and ran a finger down his ruby cheek…

His face was really, very red. When had that happened? Thor had been so busy running around that he hadn’t been paying attention to his little brother, beyond his shrieks of pretend terror at the wrath of the fearsome Jötnarr. Thor had been sunburned before from playing for too long in sun, but this time, they’d only been outside unshaded for a couple of hours.

He leaned around the column for a better look at the clock tower. Well, perhaps it had been closer to three.

The sound of quick footsteps rushing to Frigga’s side drew his eyes back to the lifeless figure of his brother in her arms. Erna, the healer who’d been tending to Loki since he was a baby, dropped to her knees beside them, setting aside her satchel of supplies and a bowl of water.

“My Queen, is he—?”

“He won’t wake. He’s burning up, Erna, his _skin—”_

“Your Majesty, focus. Take this, give him a drink. Then wet his face, hair, and neck,” she handed Mother a small, tin cup, and a white cloth square. “Don’t worry, it’s tepid.”

The women set to unbuttoning and unlacing Loki’s clothes, while Thor pondered over the healer’s words. If Loki was hot, should they not be using cold water? Or ice? It didn’t make much sense to him, but he didn’t end up having much time to be confused. His mother’s gasp and a scuffling sound brought his attention back to the group on the floor.

“Oh, Norns, he’s having a fit!”

“No, Frigga, _don’t_ hold him down! Just make sure his head is cushioned, and let me work.”  
  
While Erna ran her glowing hands over his neck, chest and legs, Thor stared in horror at Loki’s shaking body. He’d known that he didn’t handle the sun very well, but it had never been this bad.

He shrank behind the thick column, unable to watch his baby brother’s arms twitch and flail on the stone beside their mother’s knee. It was only when the scuffling stopped, and he heard the fleshy plop of the wet cloth going back into the dish that he could peek around the stone again.

“I think we stopped it in time,” Erna said, “He just needs sleep now, and the strongest burn salve we can make. Can you lift him?”

The two women nestled a lifeless Loki carefully in Frigga’s arms and hurried away, leaving Thor to watch them disappear, and to bite his lip at the lonely water-filled bowl and it’s dripping cloth.

***  
  
Thor’s belly rumbled loudly in the quiet room, announcing his arrival to his Mother, who gestured him forward from her place on the edge of Loki’s bed in the healing rooms. He’d tried to eat at dinner, but worry over his brother’s health clenched his stomach so hard, he could barely manage a mouthful.

“Sit here, darling,” she beckoned, patting the smooth, white sheet of the bed right next to her hip. He clambered on without a second invitation, curling into her lap as tight as he could while still keeping his brother in view.

He’d never seen Loki’s skin so red, this he knew. It was darker, even, than his lips, that had always stood out from his pale face. The crests of his cheeks, forehead and nose were blistering already, laying a trail of painful-looking, wet bumps across the scarlet skin.

“Will he be alright?” he asked, not liking the trembling in his voice one bit.

“He will.” Her voice was soft and calm, but her eyes were pinched and red, and they never broke away from Loki’s too-still body. “He will have to rest a few days, but he’ll be fine.”

Thor nodded against the lacing of her silk bodice, not trusting his voice to sound strong through his tight throat. They stayed like that for long minutes, watching Loki’s little chest rise and fall with laboured pulls of air, like it always did when he was sleeping.

A few years ago, when Loki was even smaller than he was now, their parents had asked if he’d mind having Loki sleep in a small bed in Thor’s room. Of course, he’d said yes, Loki was a constant source of amusement for him, and still was. Within a week, they’d moved him back into his own chambers, because Thor hadn’t slept a wink. Loki’s breathing was simply too loud, and if he was honest with himself, too frightening to ignore. The great, harsh inhales, the long pauses between breaths…he’d been sad to go back to having his own room, but he hadn’t missed those rattling, sucking gasps at all hours of the night.

“Thor, you know that Loki does not do well in the heat.” Mother stroked his hair while she spoke, softening the blow of the guilt her words caused to gnaw at his belly. “Why did you let him stay out so long?”

“I know, Mother. He—he just wanted to play, and—and I wanted him to play too.”

“I understand. But you must also understand that he’s your younger brother. You must protect him, and keep him from harm, just as he would for you.”

“Yes, Mother.” He slid off of her lap when she unwound her arms from around him and nudged him to the door.

“Off to bed with you, now.”

Sleeping would be difficult tonight, he could tell. For once, he thought that if he could only hear the sound of Loki’s jagged breathing in the bed next to him, he could sleep soundly the whole night through.

***  
  
Four days after his visit to the hospital, Thor was almost out the door—He and Fandral were going to tie worms to some long sticks and see if they could catch fish—when he heard Loki calling him.

“Can I come with you?” he panted, winded from the short run from down the sloping hill to the stream. “I’ll keep up, I promise!”

Though he was much improved, Loki’s skin was still persistently flushed, and the top layers of skin were peeling away much slower than both of them liked. The memory of his scarlet cheeks against the white sheets in the healing room chased away any doubt Thor had had over whether or not his brother should be allowed on this trip. If he wanted to never, _ever_ see Loki like that again, he had to be a good elder brother.

“Sorry, Loki, we’re going to go alone.”

“But, why?” he pleaded, the shock pitching his voice high. However fragile Loki was, Thor had never left him behind when he went on a adventure, or started a game. Not once. He had to think of a reason, and it couldn’t be that he was worried for Loki’s health. His brother would only disagree, and try to come with them anyway.

“Um…You—you’re too slow,” Thor stuttered, every word a heavy weight on his guilty heart. “We want to get there fast, and you’ll hold us up. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go back.”

Fandral called, and he waved goodbye to his brother before racing the rest of the way down the hill. Loki would be safer at home, Thor knew, but that knowledge didn’t make it any easier to turn his back on Loki’s stricken face and trembling lip.


	3. 5 Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki's magic manifests.

Porridge was worst thing in the entire world.

Loki sifted his spoon through the mess he'd made of his shallow bowl, wishing his portion could actually get smaller if he pushed it around enough.

He'd suffered through his small bit of venison, even though it tasted heavy and the stringy meat felt rough on his tongue. The salad with oil and vinegar hadn't been too bad, because at least it was easy to chew and the rest of children at the table had made the same disgusted faces at their teacher and former nursemaid.

(Sif had almost thrown a giant piece of lettuce at Thor when he wasn't looking but Fandral's giggling had given her away. She'd had to finish an extra portion of greens as punishment.)

But the porridge...Loki picked up an overflowing spoonful of the lumpy, creamy glop, then let it tip back into the bowl. At least it had cooled off; Hot things always made his teeth hurt and his gums feel strange. Actually, it was mostly cold, now.

The other children who’d sat at the low table with him had burned their mouths in their haste, shoveling spoonfuls into their mouths at top speed. All five of them had left the table ages ago, and were busy playing together across the room while they waited for their lessons to begin again.

"Loki, you need to eat before you join them."

He sighed, and looked up at Inge, whose stern expression pinched her wrinkled face even further. 

"I did," he pouted.

"Meat and greens, yes. I haven't seen you seen you take a single bite of this." She pointed to the congealing oats sitting uneaten.

Well, that wasn't quite true. When the dish had been sat in front of him, he'd quickly scraped off the top layer that had been spread with a thick layer of wildflower honey. It never tasted as good after it got all mixed with the fresh cream that his brother swore up and down was the best part.

Loki looked mournfully at the sludge, wishing for the millionth time for more honey to at least ease the ordeal somewhat. Inge sighed, and leaned in to tap the edge of his dish.

"I'll make you a trade: If you eat one more bite --a large one, I won't fall for that one again-- then I'll let you eat your favourite instead of finishing this."

Brightening instantly, Loki nodded and gamely picked up a milky scoop while she called down to the kitchen. It slid like tar down his throat, but the thought of his reward helped him to swallow it in record time.

In less than five minutes, Inge set a dish in front of him, jostling the two round, egg-sized vegetables in the bowl so they trembled and rolled. Licking his lips, he reached in to grab one of the steaming beets, but stopped at his teacher’s snapping warning.

“Be careful, lad, they’re hot.” She set a clean cloth next to his elbow, and pushed her short stool back under the table. “As soon as you’re finished, you may come and join us.”

Loki managed to restrain himself for all of ten seconds before he grabbed the deep purple vegetable to bring it to his eager mouth, but immediately let it fall from his smarting fingers. They must have come directly out of Cook’s boiling pot, to be so hot. 

Thor and Fandral’s raucous shouting drew his attention to where the four of them were playing tag, darting around a fondly smiling Inge. At this rate, their scheduled playtime before afternoon lessons would be over before his food was cool enough to eat. Torn between joining his schoolmates and finishing his very favourite treat, he distractedly ran a finger over the soft flesh of the peeled beet.

In the blink of an eye, the small orb was covered in a layer of ice, about an inch thick. Loki jerked back, and almost called for Inge, but as quickly as it had appeared, the ice vanished when he took his finger away. 

Heart pumping, he poked it again, and gasped when tendrils of frost snaked their way across it's steaming surface. When the whole of it was covered, he picked it up, and watched, fascinated when the fine frost melted away, leaving his treat perfectly cool. 

Thrilled by this bizarre, but convenient turn of events, Loki bit into the sweet, buttered beet like an apple, uncaring of the dark pink mess it left on his cheeks and chin. Thor, his friends, and even his parents to some degree, had never understood his disdain for charred meat and creamy sauces, nor his affinity for root vegetables, and these ones in particular. He’d never been able to explain it, nor did he want to. He was perfectly happy eating rare venison, with no sauce, and a side of winter vegetables.

The second beet in his bowl was still steaming, and a piece of it’s skin leftover from it’s hasty peeling was shriveled from the heat. Carefully, unwilling to burn himself for the sake of an experiment, he wrapped his fingers around it, praying that the peculiar frost would form once again.

With a quiet crackle, pink-tinged ice surrounded the beet in his grasp. Since he was no longer quite so eager, and already full from his large lunch, Loki took a moment to hold it up to his face examine it.

“What's that?”

Jolted by Fandral’s voice in his ear, Loki flipped his hand around to hide the ice ball, but the instant he moved his it, his fingers clasped around empty space. A closer look at his palm revealed that nothing remained of the beet except the dark juice, staining his hand magenta.

He didn’t have much time to wonder about the strange disappearance of the beet, as Fandral immediately sent up a panicked cry.

“Inge! Inge! Loki make his food invisible!”

“What are you on about?” she asked, as she made her way through the group of adolescents who were now sitting at her feet, ready for the next lesson. “Are you finished with your food, Loki?”

“I—” he began, but Fandral’s hollered over his explanation.

“He didn’t eat it, I saw it disappear, I _saw_ it!”

Inge frowned, and peered at the empty dish, and the residue on his hand, a sharp gleam appearing in her eyes.

“Is that true, Loki?”

He shrugged, noncommittally. He hadn’t made it vanish on purpose, and he definitely didn’t want to get in trouble for something he hadn’t meant to do.

Inge’s expression shuttered abruptly, and she nudged Fandral back to the group before taking hold of Loki’s arm and tugging him out of his chair. A maid had come into the room to clear away any remaining dishes, but she abandoned her tray when Inge barked out a command to watch the children until she returned.

Pulled along by the grip on his upper arm, Loki struggled to keep up with Inge’s quick pace. She took him along the path that he knew led to his Mother’s chambers, but said not a word during the whole trip, not even to explain why she seemed so cold all of a sudden.

“Queen Frigga?” she said when they reached their destination, and knocked on the door to her rooms. “May I have an audience?”

The door swung open to reveal his mother’s pleased, but confused face.

“Hello, Inge. You know you don’t need to be so formal, you’ve—” She stopped when her eyes fell on Inge’s iron grip on Loki’s arm, her mouth twisting into a wry smile, well aware of Loki’s reputation and love of pranks. “What’s he done this time?”

“Your Majesty, I need to speak with you in private.”

She blinked at the tutor’s flat, tight voice, but beckoned her in, instructing Loki to wait in the hall with the two guards that stood on either side of the entrance to his parent’s suite of rooms at all times. Accustomed as they were to being invisible until one of the royal family was in danger, they didn’t bat an eye when Loki pressed his ear to the wood to listen in on what was being said beyond it.

The reinforced oak was too thick for him to be able to hear everything, but he could catch small bits of the conversation, mostly from Inge: _Until he can control it_ and _It's just not safe_ were two sentences that he was certain he heard.

When the sound of footsteps approached the door, he lurched back and assumed a bored posture against the opposite wall. His mother, instead of inviting him inside, whispered into one of the armed guards’ ear, handed him a rolled piece of parchment, then shut the door again.

A few minutes later, the soldier returned, along with Alva, the woman who kept the old, dusty sections of the library he never ventured to in order. She was wheezing like a overworked mule, and her faded overtunic and long, frayed rope belt flapped as she cantered after the man’s long strides, but her face beamed with excitement.

“Oh! Prince Loki, there you are!” She clasped her hands to her heaving breast, and looked down at him with a predatory fondness he hadn’t seen in a human being express in his life, though he had seen a cat toying with a near-dead mouse with a similar gleam in it’s eyes.

“Alva, please, come in,” His mother called from the doorway. “Thank you for coming.”

“It is my pleasure, Your Majesty,” she twittered, sinking into an abbreviated curtsy, “you cannot imagine my excitement when I heard—”

Mother coughed discreetly, and flicked her eyes toward Loki, as if remembering he was there for the first time in the last quarter hour.

“Oh! Yes, yes, of course.” Her hands fluttered in the vicinity of her mouth as she bustled past the door that Frigga held open for her.

“You can come in as well, Loki.” The queen held her hand out for him to take, then shut the door behind them both. She led him to a wooden chair in front of the fire in the cozy room and bade him to sit.

Inge was standing stiffly next to Alva, and didn’t appear to share any of the librarian’s enthusiasm for whatever it was that was happening. She left the room without a glance in his direction, giving him a wide berth on the way out. Before the door had closed, Mother and Alva settled on the low couch across from his seat, and leaned forward with friendly, earnest intent.

“Loki, can you tell us what occurred today in your lessons?” Mother asked.

He explained to them how it had happened, the freezing, and the vanishing, all the while kicking the rungs of his chair to distract himself from their intensity of their attention on his every word.

“Were you thinking about covering it with ice?” Alva’s tone had a forced lightness to it, and was utterly patronizing, but he decided now was not the time to comment on it. He thought on his answer for only a few seconds.

“No, I just wanted it to be cold.”

She frowned. “And after it was cooled? What did you want then?”

“I wanted Fandral not to see it.”

The librarian blinked, then looked over, her glance heavy with significance, at the queen. His mother held up a finger, and they moved as far across the room as they could to have a hushed conversation. _Just from his emotions,_ he heard, as well as _surprisingly strong._

“Am I in trouble?” he asked, when they took their seats again.

“No, dear heart.” His mother’s warm laugh set him at ease, somewhat, but he could see that they hadn’t finished yet. Alva took his hand cautiously, as if handling a small, but deadly creature.

“Loki, your mother and I have something very exciting to tell you.”

***

Inge’s voice called out an indecipherable question, probably something to do with the history of Asgard’s relations with Vanaheim. At least, that’s what they had been studying three weeks ago, the last time Loki had been able to join her history lessons. This was the first day in many months that it had been warm and dry enough to take their books outside to have their classes on the lawn under one of the massive trees to give them shade.

Loki tore his eyes from the trembling leaves on the gently wind-blown branches, and forced himself to start listening to his teacher again. 

"...very lucky, considering the usual limitations of your gender in this discipline,” Alva was saying. “It would be a shame to waste your ability by not applying yourself. Are you listening, Loki? You much dedicate your time and energy as much as possible to your studies, do you understand?”

He nodded, and opened his heavy textbook to a dry, tedious chapter to start his practice on controlling his ability to freeze and thaw things. He’d broken a glass at dinner last night, prompting Alva and Mother to double the time he spent in lessons with her.

The voices of his former schoolmates floated up to the open window of the library, eagerly answering their teacher’s questions together, while Loki read his books, and practiced his magic amidst the dusty shelves of the library high above them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It's my head canon in this scene that Sif and the (future) Warriors Three are 'high born' as well as Thor's friends, so Odin and Frigga invited them to share Thor and Loki's lessons.
> 
> Building allies, ya know? Odin and Frigga ain't dumb.


	4. 9 Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki starts to notice some things...

Loki crept along the wall, listening for Thor’s pounding footsteps behind. So far, he’d heard nothing. Not even the clanking gait of the guards, since they wouldn’t be making their rounds in this part of the treasury for another fifteen minutes, at least.

After nearly five days straight of heavy rain, Thor had finally exhausted his store of entertaining things to do, and had agreed to play hide and seek with his brother, though he continuously protested that the whole business was “childish” and he would rather be playing a war game of some kind.

Childish, indeed. It had been Thor’s turn to “seek” for the better part of an hour and he had yet to catch even a glimpse of Loki, so talented was he at making sure he was unable to be seen.

Thor had demanded that Loki not be able to use his magic to make himself disappear, so they had bargained to allow Loki 20 more seconds to hide than Thor. Little did Thor know, but Loki wasn’t anywhere close to learning how to actually make himself invisible.

His only real advantage over Thor in this game was being able to hold himself completely still in plain sight, rather than in such obvious places as trunks, closets or once, memorably, a barrel of ale. The recollection of Thor’s dripping hair and the amount of fierce scrubbing it had taken to get the hop stench out of his skin had been all the prize Loki had needed for winning that round.

After listening for Thor’s footsteps as hard as he could one last time, Loki stole away from the wall, and contemplated a thick stone sconce that jutted out from the wall approximately ten feet high. It was unlit, since it would be months before the treasury had it’s yearly thorough inspection, and the tall, arched ceiling was nearly pitch black. If he could figure out a way to scale the wall, he could remain perched on that outcropping until long after Thor had given up searching the dimly lit vault. (Thor was remarkably thorough when searching on the ground, but he rarely thought to look up, a failing Loki had exploited numerous times.) The only sticking point was how best to reach it safely.

In his magic lessons with Alva, he had finally progressed from learning how to control his magic to making it happen on purpose. He’d been moving things back and forth across his desk with only magic for a few weeks now, and before that, he’d been learning to replicate an object exactly with an illusion. (Thor never had found out which salt cellar was the real one at dinner the night he’d perfected it.)

One thing he knew he could do was conjure ice. It might take a while, but considering the lack of any sound beyond his own footsteps in the deserted weapons treasury, he figured that he had the time to spare. Besides, his only other option was levitation, and after what had happened to the practice rat, he wasn’t about to take any chances.

Crouching underneath the block, he laid his hand a millimetre above the cold stone floor, ready to begin the lengthy process of generating enough ice to bring him all the way up to the perch. To his surprise, a square foot of ice knocked his hand higher as it formed, much more speedily than he’d anticipated.

Odd, he thought, as he watched the frozen block flicker in the blue light thrown off by Jötunn casket that sat at the end of the hallway on it’s pedestal. The speed with which the ice had appeared was certainly helpful, but, considering the rate at which it usually formed, also quite perplexing.

Rather than waste valuable time pondering his good fortune, he conjured another, taller block to form an abbreviated staircase. By pressing his hand to the chilled stone wall, he grew the two blocks in increments until he could step easily to his goal. Just as he settled himself in position and evaporated any trace of the steps, the massive doorway at the end of the hallway creaked slowly open.

“Loki?” Thor called, as if he was likely to receive an answer. “I know you’re in here somewhere, so you might as well come out now. Brandt said he saw you heading this way.”

If he didn’t already have such a substantial advantage, he’d demand another handicap from Thor over that small breach of standard rules. Although, they’d never explicitly banned asking servants for help…Honestly, Loki couldn’t help but be a little proud of his brother for his cunning.

Still calling Loki’s name, Thor moved down the empty hall, his footsteps echoing in the high-ceilinged chamber. Predictably, he felt his way along the walls, prodding the dark spaces where a small and clever boy could tuck himself away, but he never once looked up to Loki’s hiding place.

He watched as Thor made his way around the corner and headed down a long hallway to where Loki was fairly certain a few of Father’s old ceremonial armour sets were kept. Loki figured he’d have about five minutes before Thor came back again, so if he was going to move, he’d better get a move on.

Placing a hand on the wall next to him, he conjured a single block of ice, big enough for both his feet, and climbed on. Sluggishly, the block melted down the wall, and deposited Loki on the floor before it dried up completely.

He backed silently toward the door, eyes and ears focused on the corner that Thor had disappeared around. With any luck, it would take less than five minutes to reach his destination, the last place Thor would think to look: his own rooms. 

Maybe if he hurried, he’d have enough to time to hide all of Thor’s left shoes before—

Loki’s back hit a solid object, and he stumbled to turn around and look at what he’d run into.

“What do you think you’re doing down here?”

Oh, dear. Father sounded much more angry than Loki had imagined, when he’d considered the pros and cons of his hiding place.

“I—I don’t…Nothing. I was just—”

“Do you have any idea how many ancient, and possibly dangerous weapons and artifacts are stored in this vault?” Loki opened his mouth to respond, but Odin wasn’t finished. “There are fragile things down here, you could easily have broken something.”

He hadn’t touched a thing, and hadn’t planned to, but Odin wouldn’t hear his protestations of innocence. Loki picked a spot on the floor to stare at while his father railed about the _valuable_ items that had taken _centuries_ to collect, and how Loki’s carelessness could have cost them _dearly_. He’d been absently nodding in agreement for almost five minutes before his brother decided to make an appearance. Odin stopped his tirade instantly upon spying him.

“Oh, there you are, Thor,” he said, and turned his disapproving face toward his older son. “You naughty boy, I’ve told you before how hazardous these rooms could be to your health.”

“Sorry, Father.” Thor stood at attention, and turned his face downward to hide his sheepish expression. Loki cringed inwardly, and prepared for a tedious repetition of the lecture he’d already received, but instead, his father just sighed, parental disappointment bleeding from the short sound.

“Neither of you are to come down here unescorted ever again, do you understand me?”

“Yes, Father,” they chorused.

“Now, off to your rooms, and I’d best not see you out of them until dinnertime.”

Dismissed, both of the boys headed to their chambers, remaining silent throughout the whole journey, though Loki yearned to lash out at Thor for the brevity of his brother’s lecture. He _hated_ the twisting, sinking feeling he got in the pit of his stomach whenever his father was disappointed in him, and until now, he’d never bothered to take notice of how many times it had happened to him, versus his brother. Surely, the numbers weren’t as disproportionate as his memory was telling him, right? 

Thor reached his door first, and slipped through it with a final sympathetic smile. When Loki entered his own room, he flung himself on the bed and wrapped his pillow around his head to try and block out the swirling, poisonous thoughts of all the times he’d been lectured while Thor stood by. Had Loki witnessed half as many instances of Thor receiving a scolding? He didn’t think so.

Growling in frustration at the useless pattern his thoughts were leading him through, he pushed up from his bed and settled at his desk. He had hours to while away until dinner, and it wouldn’t do him any good to spend them pondering an impractical and improvable line of questioning about his father’s affection for both his sons.

Perhaps he’d practice levitation again. He opened his textbook to the appropriate chapter, and grimaced at the remnants of rat innards that he’d failed to completely remove from the pages. Perhaps not.


	5. 13 Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki tries his best to learn to fight like an Asgardian.

“Thor, get that thigh higher! Quick feet, Loki, speed is more important than accuracy when you’re running on grass! Quick, quick, quick!”

Leif’s voice rang out through the training yard, piercing the early morning air with it’s cheerful but demanding timbre.

It was only ten in the morning, and Loki was already tired. His feet were sweating in his leather shoes and try as he might, he couldn’t get them to move any faster between the lines painted on the flattened grass.

From the corner of his eye, he could see his teacher’s back where he stood in front of Thor, holding out his palms for his student to hit with his knees. The muscles in his massive arms tensed and bunched from the force of Thor’s knees connecting, and his ginger curls bounced as he whipped his head around to check Loki’s progress and—

“Oof!”

The sky was robin’s egg blue today, Loki noted from his place on his back in the grass. The observation didn’t do him much good, but it seemed like a better thing to focus on than the tightness in his chest from having the air knocked clean out of his lungs.

“Loki!” Leif yelled, sounding as alarmed as he looked as his face appeared above him.

“I’m fine,” he wheezed, and sat up, ignoring the merry spinning of the training yard.

Leif sighed in relief and crouched down next to him, but, of course, he was still a teacher at heart. “You’ve got to learn to keep your eyes up, and not get distracted. It doesn’t make much difference here, but when an enemy is coming at you, a quick look at your bootlaces could be the only advantage they need to get the upper hand.”

“I know,” he panted, and took the Leif’s hand to struggle to his feet.

His instructor smiled encouragingly once he regained his balance. “You were faster that time, though. I was watching, your feet were a blur, I swear it.”

Loki knew he was exaggerating, but he smiled back anyway as Leif placed his broad palm on Loki’s shoulder and squeezed briefly.

Leif Kirksson had taken over for the old training master only a few months ago, and since then, Loki could swear the man’s patient, but challenging techniques were helping him catch up to Thor. He was young, with a lot of interesting ideas about how to prepare students for combat with skill-building drills instead of making them participate in constant mock-battles, like old Frode had when he’d held the same position.

What’s more, he’d studied biology and anatomy when he was younger, and could pick out which of his student’s muscles were the weakest, and devise drills specifically to strengthen them. For Loki, of course, this meant he’d had to learn about 30 new exercises, but he didn’t mind, not when he could see the growth of his tiny limbs in the mirror every week. The changes were small, but they were there.

To his surprise, Loki found he actually _liked_ his new teacher. His tutors bored him, his healers annoyed him, but Leif…

“Right, get some water,” the subject of his musing said. “We’ll start your drills in a few minutes.”

Loki and Thor hurried for the stone fountain of cold water and drank their fill before soaking the backs of their necks with the ladle.

“He’s right, you know.” Thor said, excess water spraying from his lips as he spoke.

“About what?” Sufficiently moistened, Loki took the opportunity to slather on another thick layer of his sun cream with a grimace. At least this one smelled of sandalwood, instead of thrice-cursed lavender, like the last batch.

“You’re getting faster.” Thor let the ends of his long hair trail through the pool, then shook like a dog, sending droplets as far as Loki’s seat on the ground, to his annoyance.

“Maybe,” he conceded, stripping off his now damp jerkin to the thin cotton shirt underneath. “Or perhaps you’re just getting slower.”

Loki barely dodged the deluge Thor sent his way, and was still chuckling when headed back to the main field where Leif awaited them. As he drew closer to the dummies they’d been practicing on for the last three months, he noticed that their teacher wasn’t the only person waiting for them.

“Father!” Thor yelled, then raced past him to greet Odin with a firm clasp of his shoulders.

Loki joined the group at a speed far less break-neck, his mind abuzz with questions. Why was Father here? He’d never observed their training before, not even on the first day, when they’d both been so nervous they could hardly hold their wooden practice swords straight. Why now, after all this time, would he check their progress?

What would he think if it didn’t meet his standards?

“Hello, my sons. I’ve been having a little talk with your training master here,” Odin boomed, clapping the man in question on the back, hard enough to jerk him forward.

Loki frowned at the expression on Leif’s familiar countenance. He was smiling and most would say that it looked no different from his normal grin, so often present on the young man’s handsome face. But Loki had never seen that kind of tightness around Leif’s mouth, or the line that had formed between his eyebrows.

“What were you talking about, Father?” Thor asked, blissfully unaware of the tension crackling between the two adults.

“I’ve decided that it’s high time you boys learn some real hand-to-hand combat skills.”

While Thor pumped his fist in the air with glee, Loki’s stomach sank. Up until now, they’d only learned some basic defensive maneuvers, and always took turns using the dummy, manipulated predictably by their teacher. His philosophy was that blocking enemy strikes quickly and accurately was the most important part of solo combat, and had consistently resisted Thor’s pleas to advance beyond what they’d learned.

“Allfather,” Leif began, cautiously, “in my opinion, they’re just not ready to start learning offensive techniques yet, and it would—”

“Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t hire you to have an opinion, did I?” Odin’s voice brooked no argument, nor did the steely glint in his eye.

Recognizing this, Leif smiled again, and tilted his head deferentially. “Yes, Allfather.”

Odin turned to his sons and clapped his massive hands. “Now, then. I’ll try my hand at this contraption here, shall I?”

After a bit of maneuvering, Loki found himself waiting on the sidelines with the training master while Odin stood behind the controls of the wood and leather fighting dummy. Thor fell into his stance in front of the thing, nearly vibrating with a nervous anticipation that was wildly different from Leif’s though they looked much the same.

“Remember, Thor,” Odin was saying, as he got himself accustomed to the levers that would swing wooden pegs toward his son from all angles, “in my experience, it doesn’t necessarily matter how close you are to the place you were aiming for, as long as you do it with enough force to shake him.”

Thor nodded keenly, while both Loki and Leif winced. The three of them had discussed at length the pitfalls of relying on brute force to defeat an opponent. All soldiers tired, they’d agreed, so it was simply logical to make every strike count.

Of course, none of Leif’s experience and training could override Odin’s wisdom in Thor’s mind.

Odin started a counted down, and Thor held his oaken staff at the ready. When the machine started to move with Odin’s manipulations, Thor sprang into action, his mock weapon connecting with the leather-covered limbs of the dummy with unerring accuracy.

Loki’s stomach clenched at the sight of his brother meeting every one of blows with one of his own. He’d known Thor was a natural in the training field, but he hadn’t expected him to catch on quite this quickly.

Eventually, Odin landed a blow that knocked Thor to his arse, then abandoned the machine to help him up.

“Well done, my boy!” he boomed, pleased surprise colouring his voice. “Surely, that cannot be the first time you’ve tried that.”

Thor grinned through his ruddy blush and avoided looking at his teacher. “I might have gone down to the soldier’s training sessions a few times to gain a bit of experience,” he admitted.

Loki flicked a quick glance up to Leif’s face and was unsurprised by the tight line of his pursed lips. By learning those offensive moves, Thor had disobeyed his instructor, and, according to the theories he held, possibly disrupted his own progress.

“Well, I must say, it’s done you plenty of good.” His jovial slap on the back sent Thor forward a few feet, but his smile remained undimmed. “Now, send your brother over.”

Loki gulped, and walked on legs stiff with nerves to the place recently vacated by his brother. He picked up the staff that had fallen to the ground and gripped it with fingers that he hoped his father couldn’t see shaking. The wooden pegs with their padded leather covers that he’d been practicing against for so many months looked for more menacing now than it did with Leif behind it, working the levers with an encouraging smile.

His teacher broke his silence when Loki spread his feet apart in the defensive stance they’d practiced for so long.

“Allfather, boys Loki’s age seldom start this kind of training until they have far more experience. Given your son’s size and susceptibility for injury, I cannot recommend that you go through with his.”

Loki’s face flamed at the comments on his well-known lack of physical prowess, but he couldn’t deny that Leif spoke the truth. Odin, however, disagreed.

“He is but two years younger than Thor, and it’s never too early to learn how to take a blow and get back up again.”

Leif’s fists clenched at his sides. “Odin, I know him, and I know that he is not ready. I must insist that you—”

“Kirksson, you must do nothing but keep silent, unless you wish to be back working in the armoury by tomorrow.”

Leif went still for a long moment, then nodded jerkily and returned to the sidelines, his face a blank mask.

“Now, then, son,” Odin said, and placed his hands on the controls in front of him. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” he muttered, and waited for his father’s countdown.

He managed to knock aside one swift attack from the right, but when the upper most peg on the left came barreling down toward him, his instincts took over, and he leapt backward out of it’s path, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process.

“Loki,” Odin admonished, and stilled the contraptions arms. “Don’t ever back up like that. In a real battle, there would be another enemy behind you, ready to run you through.”

 _In a real battle, I’d be running in the opposite direction_ , he thought, mulishly, and settled back into his stance to prepare for the next bout that promised to be far from pleasant.

***  
  
Tired. Loki hadn’t known it was possible to be so tired.

He and Thor had been taking turns against the dummy all morning and most of the afternoon, with only a small break for food in between.

(A lot of good that had done. Loki was only half certain his father and Leif hadn’t seen him vomit up their meager lunch of cheese and bread into the garbage pit behind the drinking fountain.)

While Thor excelled and Loki struggled, Leif stood on the sidelines, white-knuckled fist pressed to his mouth, ostensibly to keep him from objecting again. Loki couldn’t blame the man for not wanting to raise Odin’s ire, though he longed for some excuse to end this afternoon of pure torture.

His latest run with the practice machine had left him with a throbbing knot in his upper thigh that he’d been instructed to “walk off.” When he finished his short, stumbling circuit of the yard, he returned to the group in time to hear Odin instructing a few of the citadel guards to take the contraption back to the armoury.

“What’s going on?” he whispered to Thor, as it was carted away.

“We’re not going to use the dummy anymore.”

Loki rolled his eyes, and smacked Thor’s revoltingly damp shoulder. “I gathered that. What are we going to do instead?”

“You, my boys, are going to spar with each other,” Odin cut in, taking an extra staff from the rack set up against the edge of the field.

 _Oh, joy of joys_ , Loki thought. _That’s going to be ever so much fun._

He cast a glance to the training master, who’d managed to keep admirably silent thus far.

Leif quickly pasted on a reassuring smile when he caught him looking, but folded his arms across his chest in a uneasy posture.

Even Thor’s enthusiasm had waned as he eyed Loki’s slight frame and tired, sagging limbs.

“Are you sure it’s alright, Father? Loki and I have never…” He trailed off, his words drowning in the memories of all the childish grappling and makeshift swordfighting he and his friends had done that Loki had never taken part in, for fear of damaging his defective body.

Odin waved Thor’s concerns away with a broad hand. “Not to worry. It’ll be good for Loki, the boy needs toughening up, doesn’t he?”

“It’s fine, Thor,” Loki comforted, forcing a devious smile, though resentment boiled in his gut from being talked about like he wasn’t present. “I’m getting quicker, remember? You’ll hardly be able to land a blow.”

His brother weakly smiled back, and took the wooden stick Odin offered him while Loki retrieved his own. Together, they donned the lightly padded sparring gear the guards brought over, each consumed with their own dire predictions of how this exercise might end.

Thor won the first round, of course, with a well-timed sweep of his staff under Loki’s right ankle. The second round was over quite quickly, though Loki thought he might have almost had that one if Odin hadn't thought setting fire to your opponent's weapon a bit "unsporting" and calling it off. 

(Leif laughed at Loki's cunning, though, so he figured the pouting expression on Thor's face, the lecture he'd endured from Odin, and the long hours he'd spent perfecting the spell last year were well worth it.)

The third bout lasted far longer than the previous ones, but Odin’s shouting from the sidelines– _Stop holding back, Thor. In war, your enemy will not go easy on you!_ —ensured that the ending was predictable: Loki, on his knees, his knuckles burning from where a sharp rap had forced him to drop his weapon, ending the match. Thor was barely panting, and rushed forward to help him up, apologies tumbling from his lips.

“It’s alright, Brother,” Loki panted, and took the offered hand to rise to his feet, “I can take it, I promise.”

“Again!” Odin called, clapping his hands to get them back on track. Thor sighed, gustily.

“Father, I’m tired,” A lie, an obvious one. “Can’t we stop for the day?”

“Not yet. Once Loki wins a bout—fairly and without any tricks—I’ll let you go for the day.”

Loki’s stomach sank. If Odin stood by his word, they were going to be here for _hours._

And so they fought, Thor with a pained wince every time their father told him stop slowing his blows, Loki with a forced smirk and a cheeky comment every time he pushed himself up from the dirt, a little slower each time.

Leif had taken to pacing the edge of the field, arms folded on his chest, or gripping his auburn curls, mussing them irreparably. A few times, he fetched a ladle of cool water for Loki when Odin allowed them a rest, that Loki sucked back greedily.

“Don’t worry,” he had said, kindly, while Loki drank after his most recent tumble to the grass, “Not all of us are natural-born warriors like Thor.”

Though he nodded and rolled his eyes, Leif’s words beat a tattoo in his pounding head as he resumed his ready position.

Suddenly, Loki was angry. Had he not grown up under the same conditions as Thor? With the same food on the table to nourish him? Had he not the same parents? What curse was he under than Thor would, from the very beginning, be faster, taller, and infinitely stronger than Loki, though they were cut from the same cloth?

With a strained growl, the likes of which Loki had ever heard himself make, he wound up to aim a solid blow to the meaty part of Thor’s thigh…

Only to overbalance and drive the oncoming staff into his ribs, far harder than his brother had ever intended.

Loki fell, again, gasping at the raw, breath-stealing agony and curling in on himself on the scratchy, sunbaked grass. He rolled on his stomach, pain-addled mind searching for a way to escape the red-hot agony, but the jerking movement only made it worse. His brother and father’s voices were muffled through the haze of the pounding ache coursing through his midsection.

“Loki—!”

“Shake it off, son—”

“Are you alright—?”

“In war, you’d have been—”

“ _Enough_!”

Leif’s voice cut through Thor’s panicked apologies and Odin’s orders. The only sound that remained was Loki’s ragged breathing and the sound of his boots scrabbling in the dirt. He watched with muzzy, detached surprise as Leif crossed the painted line of the field and knelt by his side.

“He’s had enough,” the training master said, and met Odin’s gaze defiantly.

Slowly, carefully, Leif helped Loki to his feet, supporting him under the arms and bending to take some of his weight against his wide chest when Loki stumbled and hunched over against the pain in his ribs. Loki could almost feel the weight of Odin and Thor’s eyes on their backs as they made their faltering way across the lawn.

“You’ll get in trouble,” he mumbled, as they reached wide entrance to the training area. Taking his arm back from across Leif’s shoulders, he leaned against the cool, flat stone in the shaded archway.

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ve handled my share of tongue-lashings.” Leif’s customary toothy smile had returned, but his eyes were missing their sparking blue intensity when they appraised Loki’s condition. “Will you be alright from here?

“Yes.” Probably.

Leif nodded, and patted his shoulder gently, mindful of his aches. “Good. Take care of yourself, alright?”

As he turned to go, Loki grasped his forearm, under the pretense of steadying himself.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” he asked, needing to hear the words, for a reason he didn’t quite understand.

“Tomorrow," he agreed. There was an odd look in Leif’s face at these words, but Loki was too exhausted to analyze him any further, so he let go of the man’s arm, and started the long journey back to his chamber.

***

  
The healing rooms were blessedly empty when Loki let himself in. All of the workers had gone home for the night, even the apprentices who refilled shelves and changed bedclothes long after the healers had turned in.

He kept his steps quiet regardless, grateful that he’d managed to heal himself enough that walking was easy. Most of his aches and pains had disappeared along with the livid marks scattered across his body when he’d plied his assortment of salves, tinctures and spells all evening instead of going to dinner.

But his ribs…they were a different matter.

Loki knew bruises. It figured, he’d enough of them over the years. He knew which ones were deep enough to need a bit of help from his seiðr, which ones would be fine with a little ointment. He could tell from the shape and the tenderness which would turn black by the morning, and which would remain a pale purple or reddish-brown.

He could take care of himself, this he had known for years, ever since he decided that he bruised far too easily and often to bother taking himself to the healing rooms every time he had even the smallest twinge. It was far simpler to do it on his own, to save himself the trip and the pitying looks the healers gave him whenever he darkened their doors.

Broken ribs, however, were beyond him. And, going by the sharp pain that stabbed his side whenever he breathed deeply, he’d definitely cracked at least one.

It had happened once before, though Loki couldn’t remember much of the incident. The winter two years previous had been particularly harsh, and after three weeks of solid snow, the first clear day had been perfect for ice-skating, or so Odin had decided.

The memory of that day still made him smile. Gliding across the frozen surface of the lake on freshly sharpened blades had felt as easy as blinking to Loki, and for one, perfect afternoon, he’d run circles around Thor, effortlessly filling his lungs with sweet, frigid air instead of choking on the dry heat of Asgard’s long summer.

Of course, he had to go and ruin it all by tripping over a rough patch of ice into a ancient dead tree, knocking his head and taking a jutting branch to the chest. The rest of that day was a bit of a blur, but he remembered sitting on one of the familiar white beds of the healing rooms, his mother and two of their personal healers trying to convince him to take more of a deep burgundy potion that tasted of currants and burnt onions.

He searched for that potion now, in a short cupboard filled with all manner of supplies, checking labels, and moving the bottles carefully, so as not to knock them together too loudly and alert someone to his presence.

Near the back of the cupboard, a short, squat bottle tipped over into his hand, exposing the label, and flashing dark red in the dim candlelight. Was that it? He pulled it out to examine it. It was the one he was looking for, but when Loki pulled at the stopper, the damned thing was stuck so hard he had to stick it between his knees and yank at the top with all his might to try and dislodge it.

“Do you require some assistance?”

Loki stood up quickly, then hissed in pain at the jarring movement.

Frigga tutted, then guided Loki to sit on the nearest empty bed. “What seems to be the trouble, dear one?”

“Nothing,” he mumbled, and held the bottle behind his back.

Her eyes narrowed, and flicked to the arm he hid. With a put-upon sigh, he relinquished his prize.

Frigga’s lips pursed when she recognized the bottle and the ailment it cured, and her nostrils flared from her suppressed anger as she grabbed a small, clean spoon from the table next to their seat. “I told him to leave well enough alone. When next I see him, he will—”

“Really, Mother, I’m fine—Mmhf.” He quickly swallowed the gelatinous substance, and grimaced at the disgusting aftertaste. “He did it for my own good. I need to toughen up, he said.”

“Well, this is certainly not the way to do it,” she insisted, and Loki knew better than to argue with her when her eyes shone with that mulish gleam.

“I’m going to have a talk with him,” she continued.

“About what?”

Her long-fingered hand smoothed his hair behind his ear, a habitual gesture he could remember her repeating every time he was ill or injured since he was a child.

“Some people were born to be warriors, Loki. They are the ones who learn to rely on their strength, and their natural capability for violence. Some of us need a little extra help. We need to rely on speed, agility, and no small amount of cunning to gain the upper hand.”

She laid a kiss on his brow, and stood up, smoothing her unwrinkled skirt. “Go to your lessons tomorrow, if you feel well enough. Next week, I would like to begin your training in a the type of fighting people like us use to beat people like your father.”

“Yes, Mother.” He stood up carefully, though the pain in his ribs was already lessened by half. “I’ll be fine tomorrow. Leif will know to go easy on me.”

She hummed, and laid her hand on his head once more, with an odd, tight smile. “Do you need anything else before you go? A poultice? A heated bag?”

“Well,” he pretended to consider, with a obviously false pitiable expression, “perhaps an extra dessert sent to my room wouldn’t go amiss.”

Her merry laugh echoed off the walls of the empty room, and she nudged him toward the door. “I’ll see it done. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Mother.”

***

Thor’s voice greeted him from across the training field the next day, disgustingly cheerful, given the time of day. Loki was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes when Thor approached.

“Brother! You’re well? I was worried about you, and when you didn’t come to supper—”

“I was fine, Thor, truly.” Mostly.

Thor’s brow was furrowed as he looked Loki up and down. “Are you sure? You didn’t look yesterday.”

“I just needed some rest.” And an obscene amount of salve, but they needn’t discuss that.

Satisfied with Loki’s good health, Thor relaxed, his usual smile brightening his golden face. “Good. Now, come and meet our new teacher!”

“Our what?”

Thor was already gone, racing across the grass toward a tall, burly man with an impressive mustache who was standing next to the dreaded practice dummy. Loki’s insides grew colder by the second as he scanned the whole arena in search of Leif’s tall, distinctly ginger form, and found no sign.

“The name’s Gunnar,” the man said, gruffly, when Loki approached. “We’re gonna start with some drills today, and by tomorrow—”

“Where’s Leif?” Loki asked, since an explanation didn’t seem to be forthcoming.

“He’ll not be your teacher any longer.”

Loki’s heart clenched, a phantom ache settling in his completely healed chest. “What? Why? Has he gone back to the armoury?” Perhaps he would consent to teach Loki privately, if he could somehow get the Allfather to agree…

“Heh, nay.” Gunnar’s mustache twitched with his amusement. “He’s gone to Midgard.” 

Loki couldn’t summon words for a few long moments. “Midgard?” he finally managed, weakly.

“Yep, a surveyor’s mission. Won’t be back for years, if he ever does come back.” 

“Why wouldn’t he come back?”

“Have you ever studied the Midgardian Arctic in your books, lad?” Apparently Gunnar knew Loki’s book-loving reputation.

“No.”

The man snorted, and leaned against the damned fighting machine, smug knowledge oozing from his lazy posture. “Well, I wouldn’t recommend you do.”

Loki swallowed hard and followed Thor to the open area with lines traced on the ground for their drills, looking into the wan early morning sun to explain away his burning eyes.

He wouldn’t bother looking up this “Arctic,” he decided as he fell into his stance to prepare for yet another awful day of exercises, muscle aches and sweat. Who needed to learn about stupid Midgard anyway?


	6. 15 Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jötunn puberty is a little different from Asgardian puberty...

_Oh, merciful Norns, I’m dying._

The thought ran in an endless loop as Loki kicked free the woolen sheet tangled about his legs, reverberating louder in his skull, rising with the clamour of his choking panic.

Though the feather mattress was stained as bright red as his shaking fingertips, he could feel no pain. Not from his stomach, which the morning light revealed to be unblemished, or from his scabbed-over knees that could never have produced this much blood in one night, had the wounds re-opened. Not even the tops of his thighs bore a trace of the scarlet slick that had woken him with it’s tacky wetness and coppery stench that made him want to vomit.

Or, perhaps the urge to empty his stomach was coming from the realization that the only place he couldn’t see clearly was the one place that he dreaded being injured the most.

He couldn’t look, preferring to lie on his back, eyes squeezed tight, as if shutting out the room would make the mess disappear. Slowly, with faltering hands, Loki reached between his legs and ran questing fingers over his most private parts, checking every inch for dampness or pain.

The tip of his cock. Fine. The shaft, still slightly thickened from sleep, but otherwise normal. As he moved toward the base, the tight knot of tension in his throat eased somewhat with every bit of dry, painless flesh he encountered.

Until he reached the place where he bollocks normally hung, and was met with only smooth, slightly raised flesh on either side of what felt like the beginning of a gaping wound.

With a whimper he was glad no one was present to witness, he froze, and whipped his hand away. For as long as he could, he lay, studying the backs of his eyelids and ignoring the sticky residue on his fingers, but the slow seep of fluid between his legs was undeniable.

A healer. He needed to get to a healer, as soon as possible. With the care and caution of a frail old man, Loki sat up in bed and swung his legs over the side, bracing for a pain that never came. He pushed himself to his feet without a twinge, and waddled to his chest of clothing as best he could with his thighs pressed together with all their meager strength.

He refused to look down to where warm rivulets of blood tickled his skin, and instead focused on finding a shirt long enough to cover his groin during the long trip to the healing rooms.

Eventually, he found an old one of Thor’s that fell almost to his knees, and pulled on his darkest breeches underneath it. It took only two steps for him to realize that he would be soaked through by the time he reached his destination; He could already feel the crotch of the woolen fabric growing damp.

He cast his gaze around the room for a piece of cloth, anything absorbent and small enough to fit down his pants without causing a sizable bulge. The only thing in reach was the embroidered cover of the pillow he’d flung to the end of his bed minutes earlier when he’d awoken. It was a shame to have to dirty the fine fabric, but it would have to do, and he could always spell it clean later. Crumpling the pillowcase into a rough square, he tucked it in next to the seam of his breeches, taking pains not to touch any of the wet skin there.

A quick peek down the hallway outside of his bedroom revealed that the wing was blessedly empty, and he wasted no time in shuffling away from his bedroom as fast as his stiff gait would allow.

The healing rooms were not remotely as deserted as the family chambers had been. The white-robed healers with their potions and bandages scurried from bed to bed, offering soothing words where they couldn’t provide relief.

Loki took a deep breath, and gathered his courage to request a bed of his own, but just as he reached out to tap one of the apprentices on the shoulder, a voice calling his name made him spin toward the sound.

“Mother!”

“Hello, Loki.” She tilted her head and looked at him quizzically. “You’re out of bed early. What has you up and about this morning?”

“I—” _Oh, Norns._ How did one tell his mother that he’d woken up that morning with no bollocks? Was there an easy way to explain to a wise and dignified woman such as her that he’d somehow managed to sleep through someone running him through? No, there wasn’t. The embarrassment flooded him, freezing his vocal chords and draining his resolve. He tried, but couldn’t force his lips to form the words.

“I have a headache,” he told her, attempting to sound tired and in pain. It wasn’t difficult, considering the number of times he’d been tended to in these rooms.

“Oh, darling, let me get you something,” she fussed, and led him to a cupboard full of prepared medicine. If she noticed his faltering steps, she didn’t let on. Pressing a small bottle filled with dusky orange liquid into his hand, she gave him the instructions on how to take it, then sent him on his way with a buss on the cheek.

Numbly, he went, hurrying back to his room while avoided the eyes of the people he passed in the stirring household. When he crossed the threshold into his room, he engaged the lock behind him, and added a few more magical ones on a whim before he leaned against the wooden door.

For a few moments, he allowed himself to stand, shoulders slumped and he listened to the sound of his shaky breathing. It wasn’t long, however, before the fabric between his legs grew heavy and uncomfortable.

Shedding his clothes, he kicked them and the potion bottle underneath his bed where the servants wouldn’t look, and spread a large towel in his bed. He climbed in, and brought his knees to his chest, ignoring the disgusting gush he felt as he curled himself fetal under a mound of too-hot covers.

Loki lay there for a long time, his mind racing far too fast with questions to fall asleep, and he figured it wasn’t a good idea to nap anyway, considering he was still bleeding.

Who could he tell of his injury? Any healer would let the news of his problem get to his family. He couldn’t tell his mother, he’d already tried that, and the mortification was too much to bear. Thor would only laugh at him, before telling their parents. He wouldn’t mean it cruelly, but Loki’s pride couldn’t take the blow of Thor’s amusement. That left his friends, who weren’t actually his friends at all. They were out; Too much like Thor, and it was too intimate a problem for them, besides.

The last person he could think of…was definitely not an option. Odin couldn’t know about this. Not until Loki was on the brink of death would he tell the Allfather of this wound.

He gave in to another hour or so of piteous misery, before he admitted that if he wasn’t going to let anyone see him, he at least needed to look at the damage himself.

This proved to be much more difficult than he’d thought. Before today, he’d never really needed to give himself more than a cursory glance in the baths, or when he took a piss, or during his…private time.

Rolling onto his back and just looking down didn’t work at all. No matter how much he craned his neck and arched his spine, he couldn’t see far enough to get a clear view. Next he tried standing in front of his long mirror, ignoring the rusty stains on his inner thighs and concentrating on getting his body into a position where he could see the gash. He found out quickly that he couldn’t get close enough to the ornate mirror without propping his leg up on the large stand, which made him lose his balance, since he needed two hands to steady himself and had to use one to lift his prick out of the way.

Frustrated and vulnerable in the air of his bedroom, he pulled another, much smaller mirror from the bottom of his trunk to try his last option. Laying on his back again, he bunched up the towel underneath his hips to elevate them. He cast an easy spell to elongate the mirror as much as he could without distorting the image, and clamped it between his legs. _So far, so good,_ he thought and took a deep breath as he tugged his prick up to rest on his lower belly, and finally got a good look at his injury.

 _Oh, Norns_. That was no wound, he realized with a bolt of cold shock.

His tutors hadn’t spend much time on the reproductive system in his lessons, insisting that he’d tell him and Thor about the differences when they were older.

This hadn’t stopped Thor from sneaking into the library one night and dragging Loki along. Thor had found some sort of manual on the different sexual organs of species in the nine realms. They’d both looked through the detailed illustrations, Thor with fascinated glee, Loki with a more detached distaste. It had taken a lot of convincing for Thor to agree to abandon the Midgardian and Asgardian sections of the book to satisfy Loki’s curiosity about the rest of the realms. However, after only one page on Svartalfar parts, they’d flung the book back on the shelf and spent the next two nights fighting off nightmares.

So, he knew what the puffy, pink slit under his prick was. What he didn’t know was _why_ he had it, or why the thing was _still_ sluggishly bleeding.

Loki threw his mirror to the end of the bed in baffled rage. Why was this happening to him? Less than a full day before, he’d had a normal cock and bollocks. (At least he thought they were normal, or perhaps slightly smaller than average. He hadn’t had that much to compare to, only Thor, and he was definitely _not_ average. Damned fertility traits.) Now, he’d lost the bollocks and gained a _quim_ and the damned thing was _broken._

If he wasn’t convinced that silence was the best option before, he certainly was now.

***  
  
For the rest of that day, and the one following, Loki stayed in his bed, taking his meals in his chamber and refusing to admit anyone. He’d given a particularly violent headache as the reason for his sequestering, but he could tell that Frigga was suspicious. He’d never shut himself away before when in pain. But she respected his request, and instructed that no one, not even Thor, go into his room.

He spent the time either sleeping fitfully or flipping through his spell books, searching for a hex that could cause someone to sprout lady parts, as well as one to make them go away. So far, nothing had turned up.

Eventually, he learned that the toweling he was using needed to be cleaned every few hours, and he got rather good at using seiðr to clean one while sitting on the other to avoid making more of a mess than he already had that first morning. It was easy enough to convalesce while he searched for a cure, but toward the end of the second day, another problem arose.

It started to hurt.

The lips of his new quim(and wasn’t that an odd thought) were swollen and tender, protesting every move. Cyclically, stabbing pains and throbbing aches plagued his belly and lower back, reducing him to a weeping mess for an hour or two each time it happened. Also, for some strange reason, his chest hurt, the area around his nipples feeling almost bruised.

 _I’m dying_ , he thought with certainty, for the second time in as many days.

He knew he couldn’t stay here forever, but every time he pictured the looks his family would give him, he put it off for a few more hours. Unfortunately, Odin’s return from his latest peace-keeping mission on Svartalfheim meant that he could hide away no longer. He heard the sound of his father’s giant boots coming down the hall and arranged as many covers as he could overtop of him, even while his stomach sank at the prospect of seeing him.

Odin didn’t knock. But, then again, Loki hadn’t expected him to. In a swirl of cape and greying hair, he approached Loki’s bedside and stood, looking critically down at him while Loki tried not to cringe.

“I’ve been told you are ill, and haven’t been to the training yard in a few days,” he said, his deep voice filling the wide room.

Well, really, he hadn’t been anywhere, but obviously, Odin only cared about his absence from one place. “It’s just a headache, Father, I’ll be well soon enough,” he answered, in his best ‘frail, yet attempting to stay strong’ voice.

Odin ran his shrewd eye from Loki’s pale face to the mound of stifling covers over his midsection. His voice was deadly calm and quiet when he challenged, “You know better than to lie to me, Loki. What is the matter?”

Loki slumped as best he could while lying on his back and resigned himself to the reality of the worst conversation he had ever had. Ever. “I have an…unusual problem.”

“Of what sort?”

“Um, there’s…blood,” he stuttered, his extensive vocabulary abandoning him, “and…and other things. Down there.”

Odin’s eye widened in alarm as Loki gestured vaguely to his groin. “Come, son, let me see.”

His father helped him peel away the layers of blankets and blanched at the sight of the blood-smeared towel folded under his hips. “How long have you had this problem?”

Loki swallowed hard and pressed his legs together. “Two days.”

“Two _days?_ You silly child,” Odin admonished as he gripped Loki’s knees and urged them apart, “you could have bled to death, and your mother would—”

At the sight of the source of Loki’s bleeding, Odin reared back and his face became a mask of calm indifference. “Cover yourself, boy,” he bit out, and turned away to sit at the edge of the bed.

Loki scrambled to comply, piling the wool and the furs back on with trembling hands. When he was completely hidden from chest to feet, he lay and waited for Odin to speak again, to joke at a prank well-pulled, or pat his knee and tell him that it was alright, that it was normal, or reversible.

Odin said none of these things.

“You’re not dying,” he said, instead, and Loki’s relief was overshadowed by his alarm at the cool, emotionless way his father spoke.

“That’s good,” he said, tentatively, searching Odin’s face for a clue as to how he should react, and finding none.

Silence reigned for long minutes, while Loki’s panic escalated. What could possibly be worse than dying? Why wasn’t his father relieved? His confusion was cut off when Odin finally spoke, rising from the bed.

“You must tell no one of your condition. _No one_ , do you understand me?”

Loki desperately wished he could see his father’s face. Odin’s cold, hard voice scared him, but he answered with a shaky “yes” anyway, and that was all his father needed. He swept from the room in much the same way that he’d entered it, Loki’s dread in his wake.

In his bed, the covers still rumpled where Odin had sat, Loki curled up tighter than he had in the past two days, his arms hugging his knees.

He tried to look on the bright side. Father had said he wasn’t dying. That was something, wasn’t it? Odin had appeared to recognize Loki’s “condition,” so it was likely that he’d be just fine.

Wouldn’t he?

Loki grabbed his pillow and pressed it over his head, futilely attempting to block out the memory of the Allfather’s face when he’d looked between his legs. Smashing his face into the cushion, he groaned and debated using it to stop himself from breathing ever again, then whipped it off when he realized how melodramatic that sounded.

He’d just been told that he wasn’t going to die, and now he was fancifully imagining how to make sure he did? Ridiculous.

Loki calmed himself by running his fingers along the smooth patterns embroidered into the pillowcase. The leaves of thread were smooth in his hands, and reminded him of sitting at his mother’s feet on the shaded balcony while she did her needlework and Thor played with Father in the sun.

His fingers paused on the fabric. He’d used his other pillow cover to staunch the bleeding when this had all began, hadn’t he? Leaping out of bed, and ignoring the twinge in his abdomen, he reached underneath the frame, and pulled out the pile of clothes he’d hidden there almost two full days before.

The cloth was stiff with the blood he’d failed to clean. Kneeling on the stone floor, he unfolded the square and looked at the damage. Sizeable patches of formerly white spaces were now a sickly brown, and the lighter colours of the embroidery work were badly mottled.

Regret coursed through Loki as he looked over the mess. How could he have forgotten? He’d kicked the dirty fabric away like it was nothing, instead of a cherished possession he’d had for as long he could remember. His fingers traced the image of his mother’s face, and travelled across his father’s, brother’s, and his own before coming to rest on the runes for “family” sewn into the centre of the rectangle.

Carefully, he gathered magic in his palm to perform the strongest cleaning spell he knew, in the vain hope that it would be enough to remove the worst of the stains that had been left to settle. He let the magic glow for three whole minutes, instead of the usual one, disregarding his mother’s advice. When the green light finally faded away, he felt a rush of relief at the sight of the pure white cloth, but it didn’t last long.

The fabric shredded apart when he picked it up, crumbling and sending pieces of thread tumbling to the ground. With a sigh, Loki tossed the lot back under the bed. It was a lost cause.

His lower back protested his quick movements as he clambered back on the bed and rearranged the towel, and he settled himself in for another couple of hours of agony.

***  
  
It took seven full days before the bleeding stopped completely, though it had dwindled to almost nothing on the fifth night. Thankfully, the hurting stopped about that time as well, letting Loki get some actual sleep, without being woken by a tight knot of pain in the lower left side of his belly.

(Sleeping was still uncomfortable. He despised sleeping on his back, and he’d always relished being able to spread out, legs akimbo. After the third night, and the appalling mess his tossing and turning had caused, he trained his body to remain rigid, however much he hated it.)

When he woke on the eighth morning, he was surprised by the sound of a piece of paper being shoved underneath his door. Throwing back the blankets, he savoured being able to walk across the room to the door without worrying about leaving a trail or tripping over the towel pressed to his crotch.

The paper, he found out, was actually a stack of parchment, bound by a thin, garishly pink string. Absently, he flipped open the first page, and nearly dropped it in surprise when he saw the picture of a girl about his age spreading her legs.

He turned back to the cover and looked closely at the title on the pamphlet. The Woman’s Time: An Introduction To Lunar Bleeding _._

_What in Hel’s name did the moon have to do with anything_? He thought, then settled onto the bed to read what his father must have decided he needed.

When he set down the literature, his tongue was dry from his mouth having been open in shock for so long. He was about two-thirds of the way through the thing, and already he wanted to throw it across the room.

Was this a joke? Was his mother going to pop up from behind his door, and yell “Surprise! You actually don’t need to bleed every single month for the rest of time.”

Apparently not.

He fell back against his bed and threw his arm over his face, his mind a jumble of images of bandages, cotton plugs and the finality of the words _every. Damned. Month._ How did women withstand this torture? When did their mothers tell them that they’d be bleeding from their quims for a week every moon cycle? How had they not found a way to _stop_ this yet?

Sif did this, he realized, suddenly. Or, if she didn’t, she soon would. She and Loki may not be the best of friends, he wouldn’t ever wish this suffering on her.

He grudgingly picked up the booklet again to read the last few pages, which mainly seemed to focus on why this terrible, awful thing happened. The ‘wonder of motherhood’ and the ‘uniquely female gift of childbirth’(this one made Loki snort out loud) were apparently to blame for this atrocity.

Could he bear a child? Truthfully, he didn’t even want to think about it. If that was the reason for this stupid, inconvenient _thing_ he had to deal with now, he would gladly give it up.

The last page of the book was filled with more flowery, imprecise language, this time, about coupling during the “menses,” the thought of which, honestly, made Loki want to puke.

 _It is possible_ , the page claimed, _to enjoy climax with a partner during your time, however, some women may experience tenderness on their outer lips or excessive sensitivity of the clitoris._

What in Hel’s name was a clitoris? It sounded like a disease to Loki, but, from the way the pamphlet talked about it, it must be a body part, and was possibly found near the “lips.”

Giving in to the childish urge, he lobbed the bundle of papers toward the door, but the action was largely unsatisfying, as the parchment fluttered to the floor a good seven feet short.

He supposed now was as good a time as any to seek out this highly regarded clitoris, even if the name did remind him of a leafy vegetable. He took a moment to get comfortable, then contemplated retrieving the mirror, but decided against it. He didn’t much want to look at his new equipment. Not yet. It was still too odd.

Kicking the blankets to the end of the bed, he spread his legs wide. His penis lay, disinterested in the proceedings, against his stomach. Deciding not to dive right in, Loki let his hands get used to the small bulges on either side of the top of the slit.

Abruptly, he felt a pang of sadness. His bollocks hadn’t been exceptional. Was there really such a thing as an extraordinary scrotum? He doubted it. So, no, his bollocks weren’t special or anything, but they’d been his and he would _miss_ them. Yet another thing to resent about this whole situation.

When there was nothing left to explore in that area, Loki cautiously ran a finger down the length of the outer lips. Right. Fine. Felt just like the rest of his skin. He wondered, briefly, why he lacked any hair below his shaft, since the women in the pictures had obviously had a bit of covering. Then again, he wasn’t exactly comparable to the pictures in many ways.

Slowly, he pressed his digits farther past the opening. It was rather…squishy in there, he decided, and left that part for another day.

Next, he drew his fingertips closer to where he thought the clitoris might be, going by the vague, artistically rendered diagram in the book. The top of the quim parted easily, and it did appear to be a bit different here than down below.

Gently, he hooked one finger under the little hood-like bit, and found a tiny bump that made his hips jerk with sensation when he pressed down on it. Was that it? He brushed the bump again, tensing at the startling amount of feeling the small place had.

It wasn’t bad, he decided, and continued to lightly trail the slightly callused tips of his fingers over the little nub. Oh. That felt…sort of good, actually.

On an whim, he reached between his headboard and the mattress and found the half-full bottle of almond oil he’d stolen a few years earlier when he’d first discovered his prick was good for more than just spelling his name in the snow, and had accidentally rubbed himself raw in one afternoon.

After coating his hands, he gave his cock a few quick strokes. This part was easy. He knew how to do this; Had spend whole _days_ doing this. The other part…that was intimidating.

Using a bit of the oil, he went back to rubbing the little nubbin, his breath leaving him in little gusts as his hips twitched minutely. Coordinating his hands, he stroked himself at the same time as he nudged the swollen button of flesh.

One of the worst parts of the whole week had been the boredom. He’d finished all of the work his tutor had given him on day four, and had run out of fiction from the library on day five, leaving him nothing to read but his dry textbooks, and nothing to do but lay in bed contemplating his wretched existence.

This was not boring. This was _amazing._

The sensations. Oh, the _sensations,_ that sent ripples of heat coursing through his whole lower half as the familiar feeling of fisting his cock and the new, knife edge pleasure of his wonderful, fantastic clitoris collected in a pool of pure fire.

Emboldened, he kept up the rhythm of his jerking hand and used his thumb to worry the quivering flesh and tentatively put his oiled fingers into the searing hot channel. _Interesting_ , he thought as he encountered a silky, warm wetness. Apparently, he hadn’t needed the oil for this part.

Impatient to find out more about this clever self-lubricating system, he hitched his hips to allow his fingers to go deeper…and immediately tensed and took them out again. No. He would definitely not be doing that. That _hurt._

No matter. He didn’t need it, not when he had the profoundly sensitive head and underside of his cock and the jolting, tickling nerves above his slit to make him squirm.

He almost stopped a few times as he worked toward the climax he knew wasn’t far off. It was just so _much_ , the shockwaves and the shivers and the combined pleasure of his tandem stroking—

When the precipice came, it was earth-shattering. His hips rocked up off the bed of his own volition and his toes curled, and his vision—Well, it didn’t go all white like he’d read about in trashy fiction, but he could have sworn the ceiling was a bit fuzzy at the moment when the pleasure was the most intense. When it was over, his limbs fell, boneless, to the bed.

Well, he thought, as he caught his breath. There was one good thing about this new quim of his. He’d never come so hard in his life. A spontaneous laugh bubbled up from his belly, that was warm and liquid from his climax. He suddenly felt the ridiculous urge to give the thing a pat, as if to say _well done, cunny, you’ve earned a rest_.

After a few minutes, his blood stopped pounding in his ears and he sat up to begin to dress for his first breakfast outside his room in a week. He raised his arms in an indulgent stretch, but stopped when he noticed that a second item had been pushed under his door.

Immediately, his face heated as he tried to remember when it could have been given to him, and how much noise he had been making at the time. There wasn’t much he could do about it now, but he supposed he wanted to know how embarrassed he should be at this morning’s meal in the presence of his father.

He didn’t bother to dress before he went to pick up the delivery, and sat back down on his bed to read it. It was only one page this time, but cramped with text in black ink. It didn’t take him long to recognize the script for what it was.

It was a spell. It detailed the complex process of using magic to cover up delicate areas, such as genitals, with an illusion.

 _Tell no one_ , his father had said. This was how he intended for Loki to keep his secret when required to disrobe in public. Loki let the paper float to the ground, and laid his head back down on the pillow. He wasn’t hungry anymore. There was no need for him to go to breakfast if the food would only turn to lead in his stomach.

How odd it was, he mused, that though, so recently, he’d wanted the thing out of his life, he now could not resist the compulsion to cup his new quim with his palm, as if to protect it from a world that would see only see it as a abnormality, and want it gone.

How very odd.


	7. 16 Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki improves at the magical side of fighting.

"Take his head off!"

"Harder, Ivar!"

"Now! Now! Get him!

In between firing small bursts of pulsing magic, Loki wondered if his opponent's friends actually thought their raucous calls and bloodthirsty encouragements were helpful, rather than a distraction. 

No matter, he could ignore them. Ivar, however, was having a little more difficulty dividing his attention between fighting through the maelstrom of easily blocked puffs of energized air and acknowledging the cheers of his fellow soldiers in training. 

Abandoning the blasting tactic, he smirked at the surprise on Ivar's broad, flat face when there was suddenly ten more Lokis than there had been. Like the shells of the game the soldiers played in the tavern, he weaved in and out amongst the illusions, making sure Ivar lost track of who he should be aiming for.

Buoyed on the confidence his peers had in him, Ivar charged at the nearest decoy, his arms swinging wildly to do as much damage as possible. Loki kept moving, concealing his location while his doubles dodged faster than he ever could. After a few minutes of punching empty spaces, Ivar visibly tired, the windmill of his arms slowing while Loki’s illusions moved faster and faster.

This was the technique his mother had taught him so well: Conserve energy with economy of movement, then strike when your opponent is weakened. _A woman's way_ , said Father, disdainfully. _Survival_ , said Mother. 

However effective the wall of false Lokis was, he knew he couldn’t rely on them for too long; this kind of magic was draining, and could make his other conjuring take longer, should he overtax himself. After sending Ivar into one last spin, the doubles disappeared, leaving him blinking.

At the sudden absence of the illusions, the small crowd’s cheers renewed in vigour, calling for Loki’s swift defeat. Their faith in Ivar really was astounding, he noted, considering the man was still weaving a little on his feet from the final round of dizzying movements from the hyper-realistic doubles.

While the larger boy shook his head like dazed animal, Loki unlocked his knees to ground himself, and prepared to cast his next spell, a long-practiced, dependable staple. His competitor started forward at the same moment that Loki let fly five small disks of ice that shattered on impact with the boy’s barrel chest. The shards weren’t particularly substantial, but the speed with which they flew meant that they hit just as hard as a well-fired slingshot.

Loki’s aim was accurate, this he could know without the confirmation of Ivar’s shoulders and hips jerking one by one with each blow. He may not be able to toss a discus or a throwing knife with much strength, but these thin, sharp slivers, firing off his palm? They were as close to deadly as he could get in an unsupervised, spontaneous sparring match.

Once Ivar recovered from the surprising force of the barely visible ice projectiles, he blocked them with his leather guard-covered forearms and made beeline Loki’s position with a menacing snarl. His advance was predictable, _utterly_ predictable, and Loki was ready for him. In the space of a breath, the ground underneath Ivar’s stomping feet was sheer ice, and his legs splayed like a newborn foal’s to correct his balance.

Ivar, though unoriginal in his strategy, was not completely stupid, or uncoordinated, so he regained his footing in good time. Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the ice under his feet was gone, and he resumed his determined forward march. He made it only two steps before Loki gave him his best devious smirk, and pointed skyward. The expression on Ivar’s face just before he looked to where Loki indicated was one that would remain in the prince’s happy memory repository, though it was quickly lost in gasping, shuddering horror as a bucket’s worth of ice-cold water cascaded over his head and shoulders.

This method, in itself, wasn’t painful, nor a means of defeating the boy’s emerging second wind, but a quick feint to the side and a light touch to the shoulder as he stormed past had Ivar convulsing from a bolt of electricity from Loki’s fingers, made all the worse by his frigid, wet clothing.

As Ivar’s large muscle groups spasmed in the middle of the playing field, the crowd was no longer laughing, the taunts and encouragements bellowed without a teasing smile to soften them. Calls for his spilled blood didn’t phase Loki, and he brought up his hands to prepare for his opponent’s imminent attack by throwing up a sort of magical shield he’d been working on outside his lessons.

After shaking off the last of the effects of the electricity, Ivar slammed his considerable bulk into the shimmering barrier, unfazed by the resistance he met. The shield however, flickered and dropped after the crash, despite Loki’s best efforts to keep it in place. Both fighters reeled back in surprise when the remnants of the buffer fizzled to nothing, but Ivar recovered quickly and his proximity meant that it was easy for him, with his long reach, to land a solid punch to Loki’s jaw. Loki landed on the ground in an inelegant heap, deeply regretting testing out a new technique before it was completely ready. Ah, well. He couldn’t win them all.

His face was already beginning to throb, and his magic was far from bottomless. He knew it was time to end this match.

Groaning theatrically, he curled toward his injury, cradling his cheek in his palm. As he’d expected, his opponent took the opportunity to raise his arms triumphantly to the group of onlookers at the sidelines. Once again convinced of his masculine prowess, Ivar started toward Loki, no doubt to deliver another punch, then begin the countdown to his victory.

After reviewing the small booklet kept in the armoury regarding sparring rules, Loki had concluded that the only concrete restriction regarding the use of magic in the ring was that he had use his own physical force to give the final blow, and keep his opponent on the ground without aid.

Therefore, even if his next tactic was a tad unsportsmanlike, it certainly wasn’t against any rules. And, really, when had he ever bothered with fair play, anyway?

Loki waited until Ivar yanked his shoulder back to lay him flat and placed his feet on either side of Loki’s hips. At the moment he drew back to prepare what would have been a brutal hit, Loki stopped his acting, and sent a bolt of very specialized magic snaking up Ivar’s inner thigh.

The larger boy stumbled back and, much to the bewilderment of their audience, his hands flew to his crotch, a peculiar, confused expression suddenly contorting his flushed face. Loki knew from experience that the boy wasn’t in pain—even he wouldn’t be that cruel—but the shiver of tingling warmth in Ivar’s parts diverted precious blood from his brain, distracting him long enough for Loki to get to his feet without his notice.

Loki leaned back for momentum, then drove the heel of his boot into Ivar’s stomach, hard enough to make the larger boy grunt, and double over. Clasping his hands together, Loki took advantage of Ivar’s lowered head, and brought the combined force of both his arms flying up into his face.

Ivar bellowed with rage and barreled forward, his eyes barely open against the pain of his bleeding nose. Loki waited until the last second to extend his arm, hooking Ivar’s neck while the rest of him kept going, ensuring that the highest ranked trainee in Asgard’s apprenticeship program fell with a mighty thud. He made a feeble attempt to sit up, but his weakness from Loki’s wild goose chase and the pain in his stomach quickly had him slumping back to the ground.

The spectators at the edge of the field went completely silent, as Loki placed his muddy boot on the boy's throat for the required five seconds. They were counted by Ivar’s fellow apprentice, Haskell, who had eagerly volunteered for the job after Loki had extended his challenge. No doubt, he’d been expecting a short fight, and bragging rights as a witness to the time good old Ivar put Price Loki on the ground.

Instead of a rousing tale for the tavern, Haskell received the dubious honour of ensuring Ivar’s true defeat, and informing the crowd of Loki’s victory. Loki hid his wince as Haskell loosely grabbed his wrist and held it up before the spectators for the shortest amount of time he could get away with without insulting his prince. He thought he might have overdone it earlier, with the clothesline move, and could tell that a salve and a cold compress were in his future, for both his arm and the bruise he was sure to have on his jaw.

Grudgingly, Haskell took his other hand and shook firmly. “Congratulations, Prince Loki. You win,” he intoned, juvenile petulance dripping from every syllable.

Despite the nagging ache of his injuries, Loki was flushed with his success, and couldn’t help but smirk at the other boy’s weak attempt at paying respect to the victor.

“No, really?” he drawled, relishing the tight almost-frowns of some of the dispersing crowd at his mocking tone. “I would never have guessed that from the way your friend is writhing on the ground like an infant.” 

Haskell’s fists clenched, and his lips became a tight, tense line, but Loki turned his back on him before he could muster a response. He was almost halfway across the training area when Sif caught up to him, wearing her customary sturdy leather garb and a thunderous frown.

“Are you not going to congratulate me?” he asked, when she merely trailed alongside him in stony silence.

“I’m happy that you won,” she said, simply.

“But you don’t like how I did it,” he finished for her.

She stopped him with a hand on his elbow. “It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s them you have to worry about.” She jerked her chin to where a few of Ivar’s comrades were helping him up off the ground. Sure enough, a few of the remaining trainees were throwing surreptitious glares his way. “They don’t trust you. Don’t give them any more reason to dislike you than they already do.”

“You worry too much, Lady Sif.” He threw off her restraining hand, enjoying her wince at the title he knew she hated. “They’ll learn to respect me soon enough, once I beat them all.”

Loki spun on his heel, and stalked away from Sif, his good mood only slightly dampened by her less-than-enthusiastic response to his glorious win. Her opinion was inconsequential, and besides, he had an aching wrist and a swelling face to tend to.

***

  
Loki was still enjoying the high from his success when he headed down for dinner that night, and the buoyant feeling made it easier to bear the aches in his joints that lingered from the fight. He refused to spend tonight worrying about the fact that the random shooting pains that Mother had assured him were synonymous with growing had yet to stop, though he hadn't grown an inch in over a year.

He was running a little late, so he quickened his pace, navigating the familiar hallways without meeting a soul on the way. Unfortunately, the new speed caused the muscle of one of his thighs to tighten, no doubt a remnant of his exertion that afternoon. Bracing against the wall, he reached down to massage the out the spasm.

Distracted by the seizing muscle, he didn’t hear the footsteps behind him until he felt strong arms grab him from behind, pulling him into a nearby alcove. The stone niche, once occupied by a large statue, was darker than the rest of the hallway and concealed from anyone rounding the corner.

Two hulking boys pinned his back against the wall and held him steady by the arms in their inexorable grips. On one side, he recognized Haskell, from earlier, and on the other, he thought the boy might have been called Sten, though he’d never bothered to find out, and he certainly didn’t spare him another thought now, with Ivar standing in front of him, at once looking like a spoiled cat with a mouse already caught, and a Midgardian tiger, ready to pounce.

“Good evening, little princeling,” he drawled, crossing his arms indolently over his chest.

Loki couldn’t help but be miffed by the epithet. They were only two years apart in age, however disparate their sizes were. And certainly, their differing physiques were all to clear to Loki, given their current positions.

“May I help you gentlemen?” he returned.

“Well, that depends,” Ivar sauntered forward, leaning into Loki’s personal space, “on whether you’re going to apologize.”

“For what, exactly?”

“You cheated.”

Loki scoffed, loudly. “I did nothing of the sort. Check the rulebook, it clearly states that—”

Ivar’s hands slammed into the stone on either side of Loki’s head. “I don’t care about the bloody rulebook. What kind of a man uses cheap tricks to get an advantage?

Clearly, Ivar wasn’t about to be reasoned with. “Who said I needed an advantage? I was simply using all the abilities available to me. They seemed to work fine on you.”

Ivar’s laugh was mirthless, and his breath blew hot in Loki’s face. “You’re a piece of work, aren’t you, _ergi_.”

The slur wasn’t entirely unexpected. In fact, it was almost a relief to know what had spurred this unparalleled act of aggression: Taking advantage of Ivar’s hormonally-charged state this afternoon had hurt his poor, masculine feelings. The fact that Loki was the first of his gender(besides the untouchable Odin) to practice magic in decades was a fairly obvious thing to choose to try and get a rise out of him, but he supposed he couldn’t expect much better from a dull-witted brute like Ivar.

Loki thought it would be ill-advised to laugh in Ivar’s ugly face at the absurd notion that an (admittedly somewhat underhanded) trick should offend his dignity so, but, at this point, he doubted anything he said could sooth Ivar’s battered ego, beyond _Oh, Ivar, you’re just soooo manly, how could little old me resist?_ Although, thinking on it, that probably wouldn’t work either. He bit back his snicker as best he could, because, apparently, Ivar wasn’t even finished.

“Are you even a man?” he sneered. “Or is that just another one of your illusions?”

Loki internally rolled his eyes at the taunt, and threw his caution to the wind.

“How badly would you like to find out?” he quipped. Craning his neck, he waggled his tongue suggestively and arced into Ivar in a full body roll.

For a brief moment, Loki thought he'd thrown the boy enough to get him to back off, but, unsurprisingly, it turned out the removal of Ivar’s bulk from his space only lasted as long as it took for Ivar to wind up his arm to drive his fist into Loki’s stomach.

Loki hunched against the pain as much as he could with his arms still held in place on the wall, and was braced for the second and third punches when they came in quick succession.

  
_Shut your mouth, Loki_ , a small, rational part of him urged. _Shut it now, don’t say anything more, or it’ll get worse._ Regrettably, the section of his mind that held both his reason and his self-preservation was currently overwhelmed by the blaze of his breathless pain and helpless rage.

His laugh came out choked and feeble, but no less derisive for it’s lack of volume. “Is that all you’ve got? And you call me a girl.”

He’d been expecting the blow to his cheek; It was really inevitable, given the potency of Ivar’s pique. What he hadn’t been expecting was the open palm that connected with enough force to snap his head to the side.

If he’d been under any illusion that Ivar considered him an equal, before, he surely wasn’t now.

Once more, Ivar’s hand struck his face. Redundant, really, as Loki already sagged in Sten and Haskell’s firm hold, his blood beating a tattoo in his red-hot cheek. When no more blows came, he bit his tongue to keep it still, hard enough to make it bleed, though it was difficult to tell that for certain, as his lip had split open as well.

At Ivar’s nod, his arms were released, and he slid down the wall of the alcove to the floor, too numb with pain and burning humiliation to hold himself up. He let his head fall back against the stone as the boys moved away from him and down the hall.

“See you around, princeling,” Ivar jeered, his mocking voice echoing in the empty corridor. They’d almost reached the end when Loki summoned enough breath to call after them.

“Has it escaped your collective notice that you could be beheaded for this?”

Ivar turned back to face him. “Go ahead, point a finger at us,” he goaded. “Five people will swear up and down we were in the pub all night.”

They disappeared around the corner too quickly to hear Loki’s snort of incredulity. Their so-called alibi was as good as useless, should Loki report them. Who cared about proof when a member of the royal family had bruises and a place to lay the blame?

The idiots wouldn’t have to worry, though. Loki was no fool. He knew his reputation, and the irreversible damage that would be done to it if he accused three of the most popular and talented trainees in the apprenticeship program of ganging up on him in such an dishonest manner.

No one, outside his family, would believe him, and whatever hope he’d had of gaining anyone’s respect or admiration through his abilities, separate from his royal status, would be dashed.

Gracelessly, he got up from the floor, carefully avoiding the use of his recently healed arm as he started down the hallway, leaning against the wall for support. His shuffling steps reverberating off the high ceiling as he made his slow progress back to his room. He wasn’t in the mood for dinner anymore.

Sif appeared around the corner that Ivar and his goons had just deserted and spotted him immediately, taking in his stooped posture and the arm cradled around his stomach, not to mention the mess his lip must be.

As he passed, she opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a hand, staying her.

“Don’t.”

Surprisingly, she listened, and only nodded before she left him to his painful trip away from the main dining hall. He supposed he should be grateful that he wouldn’t have to endure her ‘I told you so’ tonight.

It wouldn’t last, he knew. Even if she never said it out loud, her smug, knowing gaze when he next returned to the private sparring area would be enough to set his teeth on edge, and make him wish he’d never started challenging the apprentices in the first place.

He wouldn’t be going back to the soldier’s training field, he decided, at least not for a while. He already knew that he could beat all of them, though not in the way they wanted to be beaten. He didn’t have to prove anything. Not to them, his father, Thor’s friends. And least of all, to himself.


	8. 17 Years

Thor, Sif and the rest of their band were chafing at the bit of their training exercises. The Asgardian sun was shining down on the training field as they grappled, glinting off their armour and sending flickering lights across the pages of Loki's book. 

"Have we ever had a summer as hot as this one, friends?" Thor griped after he put Volstagg on his back for the third time. 

"Yes, we have," Loki called from his seat under the tree. "Every summer for the past twenty years has been exactly as hot as this one, and yet, every summer you say the same thing."

"I disagree, brother, I swear it is hot as a Muspelheim Solstice, and it has never been quite so warm."

His friends sent up a lazy "Hear, hear!" from where they'd all collapsed to catch their breath. 

Loki shrugged and went back to his reading. He knew how this argument went, having had it every year for over a decade. There was no need to rehash it, when he was busy concentrating on keeping the air around him as cold as the root cellar in the kitchen. 

He tuned out their conversation, relishing the artificial breeze that teased the soft cotton of the shirt he'd worn in place of armour. A bit of sweat would wash away the grime his companions had accumulated from their training. He was doing them a favour, really, by not sharing his pool of cooled air. 

He was drawn from the description of how a cup of spelled water would behave when exposed to high heat by the rising volume of the would-be warriors.

“I say we do it, there’s nothing stopping us,” cried Sif, already on her feet.

“I’ll do anything to get out of this dreadful heat.” Fandral’s blond hair was pasted to his forehead with sweat, and the ruddy flush on his cheeks didn’t suit his complexion.

“Anything but go back inside, you mean,” the normally silent Hogun pointed out.

While Fandral swiped indolently at his friend, Thor brushed off his breeches, and shook the grass from his hair as he stood up. “Enough with your quibbling, let us be off!”

“Off where?” Loki asked, while they pushed to their feet.

Thor was looking more refreshed by the second as he came toward him. “We intend to take shelter in the shade of the forest.”

Loki frowned, casting a glance to where the trees of the giant forest stood tall and unmoving in the distance.

“Are you certain? It being the rut season for bilgesnipe, don’t you think—”

“I am certain that I’ll expire from heat and boredom if we stay here baking much longer.”

Thor’s friends shouted their agreement, and gathered their weapons from the ground.

Loki sighed, and stood up as well, stretching the bubble of temperate weather to accommodate his new height. “Well, if you must, then you’d—”

“Come with us, brother!” Thor pleaded, tugging the book from his hands, and holding it high above his head.

He refused to embarrass himself by trying to jump high enough to take back his possession(he’d tried it before, and Thor had just that much more height on him, as well as an immovable iron grip), so he crossed his arms over his chest and rolled his eyes, even while glowing inside from the unexpected invitation. “Why should I? I’m perfectly happy to sit under this tree, so there’s no reason for me to look for another.”

“We’re going to climb to the top of one of the trees, that way we won’t have to worry about bilgesnipe, and we can see if there’s any fruit to be had.”

 _Not likely_ , he thought, but he was tempted regardless. He was running low on the apples he needed to test out a new strengthening rite he’d been meaning to try.

With a fake, put-upon sigh, he crouched down to tighten his boot laces. “Fine, I’ll join you, but don’t—”

Before the end of his sentence, Thor let out a whoop and dropped the book on the dry ground in front of him. Before Loki could draw breath to admonish him, Thor took off in the direction of the forest, his friends following behind at breakneck speed. Abandoning his boot ties, Loki picked up the heavy tome and looked around him for a place to set it that was cleaner than the sunbaked grass of the training field.

Hurriedly, he picked a part of the low wall surrounding the wrestling area and followed after the group at a run.

 _Why was it necessary to run there?_ Loki thought, panting heavily after ten minutes of jogging to catch up. _Would the journey not be just as pleasant if taken sedately?_

No matter Loki’s preference, the laughing soldiers-in-training barreled on ahead, their long, powerful strides taking them across the large expanse of grass quicker than Loki’s thin, weak legs ever could. After ten more long minutes of watching the group get farther away from him, his chest and thighs were already aching from the exertion, but he forced himself not to slow down.

 _Damn this long summer, he thought._ In winter, or even late fall, this trek wouldn’t be nearly so arduous, but something about the heat and the long days of midsummer sapped his strength, and he had to work three times harder usual to keep up with his normal training exercises, not to mention the impossible task of maintaining the same pace as his brother or his friends.

Abruptly, he realized he could probably move a little faster if he wasn’t still holding up his shield against the warm air. He dropped it quickly, and nearly fell on his face from the force of the wave of dry heat that slammed into him. As it was, he landed hard on his knees, feeling the hardy wool of his breeches tear where they slammed against small stones. _Damn. Mother will have to mend those, and she’s bound to ask about the blood._

Loki leaned forward on his palms, sucking in burning lungfuls of air that felt as thick as soup. His legs ached, his palms stung and, worst of all, the skin of his back was starting to prickle from the sizzling rays of the sun on the back of his neck and through his thin shirt.

He couldn’t stay there. He’d be burned to a crisp in just a few more minutes, and from his crouch in the grass, he could see his intrepid leaders reach the edge of the forest where cool shade awaited.

On shaking, colt-like legs, Loki pulled himself up, then forced them to start moving, at first, a limping stumble, then a canter, then a full-out run as the oasis grew nearer. His lungs never stopped burning, and he could barely breath by the time he got there, but within a few minutes, he broke through the line of trees into the shadowed forest beyond, a smile on his face and a call to his companions on his lips…

Only to see that Volstagg was the last person to disappear up into a sturdy, tremendously tall oak, and that the lowest branch was a good 15 feet high.

Loki sagged against a nearby trunk and stared up at the intimidating height, his stomach sinking as he contemplated climbing the massive thing. Thor, of course, had forgotten him. He could hear faint echoes of his booming laugh from what must be a very long way up.

 _No matter_ , he thought. _He’ll remember me eventually_. He always did. It took him a few hours, sometimes, but he always remembered to come back for his weak, incompetent brother, who was usually waiting on the sidelines, bemoaning his shortness of breath and lack of rippling muscle.

Spurred by a flood of frustrated anger, he limped over to the tree and attempted to sling his legs around the trunk like he’d seen Volstagg do, and shimmy up to the lowest branch.

It took all of three seconds for his legs to turn to jelly and he slid down the rough bark onto his arse with an undignified _oof._

Loki collapsed, defeated, onto his back, his legs still wrapped loosely around the oak, and stared up into the trembling, golden light of the sun through the leaves. To pass the time, he took note of his various aches and pains, and catalogued what he’d be able to heal by himself, later. Bruised tailbone. _Salve._ Scraped knees and palms. _Herb-laced dressings._ Muscle aches. _Hot bath with oil._ Battered pride…sadly, the only balm he had found, so far, was time, and the short memories of his fellow Asgardians.

Loki groaned and threw his arm over his eyes. Burying his still hot face in the crook of his arm, he concentrated on filling his over-taxed lungs with precious, cool air, feeling his chest expand and contract rhythmically, the soft huff of his breath calming him. Vaguely, he became aware that his was not the only breath filling the small clearing.

The heated prickle of his skin leaked away as he forced himself to tip his head back to take in the view behind him.

A male bilgesnipe stood less than 20 feet from where Loki was lying, defenseless, on his back. Even upside down, the twitching nostrils and giant, sharp-looking antlers sent a spike of terror through his whole body.

As slowly as he could, he stood up. Would moving slowly help? He had no idea. He hadn’t studied bilgesnipe that hard, since none of the parts of the animal were magical. It wasn’t as if he’d ever been invited on the hunts during the winter months, so he’d never bothered to commit the details of how to defeat one to memory.

From what he could gather, this one was smaller than average, but it still close to the size of his massive bed at home. It made sense. The larger ones wouldn’t dare to come this close to the edge of the forest, but this one was probably spoiling for a fight, after being driven out by the alphas.

Even from his place, frozen against the tree trunk, he could smell the beast’s foul breath, especially when it started to snort angrily and paw the ground. Loki’s knees quaked as the killing rage glinted in the bilgesnipe’s eye, but he swallowed hard, and remembered his mother’s teaching.

 _Stand your ground,_ she’d said. _No spell can be powerful if you are not still and sturdy._

It was easy enough to do when practicing in the arena, but here, staring down a creature both taller and much, much wider than he was? Easier said than done.

His tricks and illusions were useless against this dumb animal. Only pure force would bring down something of this size, and Loki’s usual tactics of outwitting his enemy couldn’t help him much now.

Loki sank into his stance, despite his shaking fingers and knocking knees, and tensed when the animal twitched, then drew back it’s head and roared loud enough to make a few leaves cascade from the leafy ceiling.

A wave of his hot breath, thick with the stench of rotting flesh, billowed over to him, and he gagged, annoyance briefly overriding his fear.

“Excuse you,” he snapped, coughing, then gasped as the creature grunted and charged, cloven feet beating the soft ground.

Loki concentrated on forming the ball of energy in his palms, and waited until the beast was five feet away to let loose, hitting the thing square in the face with a flash of bright light that he knew packed a hefty punch.

It reared back, shaking it’s head and sending flecks of spittle flying, but it didn’t fall. Loki cupped his hands again while it bared it’s sharp, yellowed teeth in a snarl and prepared to charge again.

This time, Loki side-stepped the sharp antlers, taking advantage of the animal’s lowered head to leap away while it skidded to a stop and turned around. Enraged, and stupid from the mating season, the bilgesnipe raised its front legs with a bellow, leaving its barrel chest exposed.

Loki took the opportunity, and pushed a flickering orb of pure force directly toward its unprotected heart. The bolt of glowing seiðr sank through the beast’s scaly hide, knocking it onto its side with an earth-shaking thump, but otherwise, not leaving a mark.

Stunned, the bilgesnipe twitched, but made no effort to get up. For good measure, Loki let one more surge of power fill his palms. With a heartfelt war cry, he let loose the lightning-like spell that slammed the beast through the trees, where it rested, unmoving, in the dirt, almost 30 feet away from where it had started.

Loki stood for a few long minutes, attempting to ascertain whether the bilgesnipe was breathing, but it was difficult to tell, when he was shaking so much he could barely see the nearest tree clearly. His knees gave way abruptly, and he knelt in the dirt, listening to his heart race and clenching his hands to get the feeling back into them.

 _I did it_ , he thought, his bubble of hysterical laughter jarringly loud in the silent clearing. _I defeated a bilgesnipe, by myself, with only seiðr._ A bizarre wave of terror-fueled happiness washed over him and he found he could barely contain his giggling.

 _Wait until the Allfather hears about this_ was the only thought running around his head, until Thor dropped down onto the dirt next to him.

“There you are, Brother! I thought I heard a noise. We had wondered where you’d gone to.”

 _You mean,_ you _wondered where I’d gone to,_ he thought, uncharitably, but nothing could dampen his elation as he sprang to his feet.

“Thor! Look what—” Loki pointed to the place between the thick tree trunks where the bilgesnipe had landed, but broke off with a gasp.

The beast had risen, swaying, to his feet. If Loki had thought it was angry before, it was positively livid now. The only sign of the blow that had knocked it unconscious was the thin trail of dark red blood that trickled from it’s nostrils, and the laboured sound of it’s breathing as it prepared to charge.

It was not long for this world, Loki could see. It’s stubbornness meant that it would try once more to take them out, but the dripping from it’s nose surely meant internal bleeding. If he could just hit it one more time—

“Loki, stay back!” Thor shouted, and shoved him against the tree.

“No, wait! I can—” he tried.

“Back!”

The enraged beast screamed, and stumbled toward them, just as the rest of the warriors dropped to the ground behind them, their weapons drawn.

Thor had already pulled his sword from his belt and as the bilgesnipe ran closer, Loki watched his brother step on the crazed animal’s antlers and thrashing head and spin around to drive the sharp blade into the it’s neck, killing it instantly.

After a few tense moments, Thor yanked his blood-stained sword from the dead beast, and held it aloft, shouting his victory into the still air of the forest. Thor’s friends took up his cry and rushed forward to clasp his shoulders and congratulate him on his impressive kill, gratitude and awe evident in their voices and glad faces.

Loki stood, numb from shock, as the warriors all unsheathed their blades and began to dismember the beast to take it back to the great hall. There would be a great feast, they were saying, and much celebration in honour of Thor’s first successful attempt to take down a rut-crazed bilgesnipe single-handed.

 _Single-handed,_ Loki thought, his mind blank of all other thought, save keeping himself on his feet, propped up against the oak tree. The words cycled over and over, losing meaning, even as each member of the group hefted a gory limb and Thor called to him to follow them back home.

The numbness chilled him as they made their way across the grass field, slower this time, thankfully, though Fandral, the fastest runner of them all, sprinted ahead to tell of the good news.

When their party reached the main doors, the sun had begun to set, and thick, dark clouds rolled across the sky. None of the jubilant group gave a care for the impending rain, however, as they were greeted in the great hall by Odin himself, who stood, smiling widely, with a large, engraved box in his hands.

Thor dropped the largest piece of the bilgesnipe’s corpse at their father’s feet, and beamed proudly up at him, barely even noticing the onlookers filling the room.

“My son,” the Allfather boomed. “Your friend tells me you have done them a great service today.”

“Does he?” Thor asks, sending a cheeky grin Fandral’s way.

“He says that you defeated this creature alone, saving your friends and your brother from being trampled, with your skill and quick wits.”

 _Surely, the air in this room has been stolen_ , Loki thought _. Sucked away into a black hole, maybe._ A quick glance down revealed that, no, a vacuum hadn’t opened up in his stomach.

“I was going to wait until you’d returned from a successful mission to another realm,” Odin continued, each word a cold, sharp blow to the centre of Loki’s chest, “but, given your bravery, and your selflessness in the face of grave danger, I believe you deserve to have this now.”

The shock that Loki felt at the sight of the name carved into the box Odin offered must have looked much the same as Thor’s as he stuttered, and stepped over the sluggishly bleeding beast.

“That’s—Is that?”

“It is, indeed, my son.” Odin said, pleased warmth colouring his noble voice.

With a shaky sigh, Thor undid the clasp on the ancient box, and pulled Mjölnir from her resting place. The hammer sagged in Thor’s grip, the weight pulling him nearly to the floor before he hefted her to shoulder level and stared at the gleaming metal surface with awe.

“She is yours, and you will learn to wield her well, I am sure,” their father said, his hands gripping Thor’s shoulders tightly for a brief, precious moment. “But, for now, there is feasting to be had. Bring the beast, and let us roast it, to share in your victory!”

A rousing cry rose up from the people watching the proceedings with envy, admiration and joy in their expressions. His brother’s friends pushed past Loki to heft the carcass from the floor and carry it to where Cook had stoked the communal fire in the centre of the large hall. Loki let their jostling knock him forward to Thor’s side, where his brother accepted congratulations from his father’s soldiers and advisors.

“Brother!” Thor cried, and clasped his boney shoulders, his face falling as he took in Loki’s (hopefully) blank expression. “Are you not proud of me, Brother?”

“So very proud,” he choked, and forced his lips into his customary teasing grin. “I could shed a tear!”

“Ah, but today is not one for crying. It is a day for celebrating!” Thor shook his brother’s entire frame with the force of his joy, and Loki tried his best not to flinch at the shafts of pain that shot through his body. “Promise me that you will share the first portion with me. I would be honoured to have you by my side.”

Loki swallowed around a thick tongue and shook his head. “Thank you, dear Brother, but I find am still affected by my brush with death.” He tugged his shoulders out of Thor’s grip and backed away, averting his eyes from his crestfallen expression. “You must celebrate doubly for me, alright?”

With that, he took his leave, hurrying out into the courtyard, where the rain was coming down in torrents.

Convenient, really. He felt his throat closing, and the hot tears threatening, but blinked quickly, walking away as fast as he could on his stiff limbs to try and force the emotion back down.

When he reached a private alcove, he slammed his back against the hard stone, ignoring the residual ache in his bones.

How very fitting, that the first thing he’d ever accomplished that he thought his father could be proud of would be ripped away from him in this manner. Because, what could he say? Any attempt to tell his people of his part in the beast’s defeat would be seen as petty jealousy, a way to belittle Thor’s achievements to make himself look good.

And weren’t they right? Didn’t Thor land the killing blow, after Loki’s magic had failed to take the creature down completely?

He could only look on, proud to bursting at his brother’s accomplishment, but burning inside with the need to yell to the rafters, “ _I did it too! Well, almost…isn’t that enough?_ ”

It was never enough. His magic, growing stronger by the day, his encyclopedic knowledge of the history of the Nine Realms, his skill with battle strategy; None of these would ever be enough to please his father, or the war-obsessed people he ruled.

Not even his hours of poring over dry textbooks would…

Loki straightened abruptly, his joints protesting the speed and the change in temperature, and sprinted out of the courtyard to the training field, ignoring as best he could his heaving breath and clumsy, uncooperative limbs.

With an furious growl through his teeth, he fell to his knees beside his book, which had been carelessly tossed off the wall to the muddy ground. He flipped through the thin pages, trying to find one that hadn’t had the ink turn into a soppy, smeared mess, but it was no use. The book was destroyed.

Aching from the exertion, numb from the hurt and the exhaustion he sat there, on his stinging, scabbing knees and clutched the ruined book to his thin chest, shaking violently, but not crying.

No. He was finished crying. From the agony of his body, or the wounds of his constant rejection, it didn’t matter.

He would weep no longer from the pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Cue montage of Loki working 10 times as hard so that he can become the badass we all know and love.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this! It doesn't have a happy ending, sorry! 
> 
> If you have any constructive criticism for me, I'd love to hear it!


End file.
